


Seventh Year

by Wheel_of_Whimsy



Series: Forever Flintwood [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, First Time, Get Together, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, Not Beta Read, School, Slow Burn, Teenage Drama, Timeline What Timeline, does it count as slow burn if it happens in less than 10 chapters, like my attempt at angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheel_of_Whimsy/pseuds/Wheel_of_Whimsy
Summary: Marcus and Oliver have revolved around each other for a while. Seventh year brings them both closer and further apart.
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Forever Flintwood [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139930
Comments: 40
Kudos: 115





	1. Time to Get Back to Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think this rarepair would be the thing to break me out of my writing rut. I also didn't think it would be the thing to get me to write chaptered fics again after a 10 year only-oneshot rule. I also didn't think I would twice write something longer than anything I've ever written in my life because my previous personal best was only like 5k and both these stories have popped out around 20k.
> 
> Marcus is in Oliver's year so he never got held back. Also i have a HOST of OCs who don't play any purpose to the story other than being extras in my own personal film. Theres a list of all my people at the end as well as useful things like Marcus's 7th year schedule and the Quidditch schedule for the year. Not all the slytherin OCs will make it into the story but I needed to map out where/when they fell as I was writing because I get confused. There are a few other houses' OCs mentioned only by name but they aren't included.
> 
> Also 5 chapters are completely written but this one is a 6 chapter and the 6th chapter has yet to be written. I hate leaving things unfinished so it'll definitely be done soon i'm just bogged down in summer homework.

The welcoming feast was always a dry affair, at least in Marcus’s opinion. He shifted awkwardly in his seat and tried to subtly straighten his shoulders. The tiny little first years toddled in and gawped at the ceiling, twisting their necks this way and that with no regard for their manners or anyone who might be watching them. Lord Flint, his father, before Marcus came to Hogwarts spoiled the time honored tradition of lying about the sorting ceremony and warned him upfront that if he embarrassed the family--whether through usual first year shenanigans or through his own house--he would regret it. 

At eleven Marcus had no choice but to believe his disownment was looming on the horizon. He remembered walking through the grand doors and entering the great hall like all the other children, but that’s where their similarities ended. He remembered looking straight ahead, roving his eyes over everything in his peripherals and over the head table and all the professors and trying to ignore the incessant prattling of little Percy Weasley chittering to his new best friend a few rows back about the enchanted ceiling. Waiting for his name to be called was torture. That part of the tradition would carry on long after Marcus left these halls. He’d risen up onto the slightly raised dais and sat on the stool, allowed McGonagall to dump the hat over his eyes, and conversed with it like every other child who’d ever worn it. 

“Ambitious, my yes,” It whispered to him, “And just enough cunning to make your dreams come true without the help from others… though you wouldn’t turn it down, would you?” 

Marcus hummed back. He never was one for idle conversation. 

“I think the house of your ancestors fits you nicely, although you’re more sporty than most of them!” and then it shouted aloud, echoing around the hall, “Better be Slytherin!” 

He took his seat with his new housemates to finish the sorting, eagerly awaiting his friends. Marcus imagined it would be remarkably similar to this lot. Now he shared the bench with a truly staggering amount of upper years, if he said so himself, and most of those were even fond of him. The Slytherin rolled his shoulders again and looked across the hall as the transfiguration professor welcomed the youngest Yaxley into Ravenclaw. At least it wasn’t ‘puff or, worse, a Gryffindor. 

The newest Slytherins looked up the table with curiosity and no small amount of trepidation, as well they should. Marcus tried to eyeball them and guess at their families just on looks. A Wilkins if that nose was anything to go by, the outrageously curly hair on the girl near the end almost surely made her a Pyrite if he was correct… Mulciber’s little brother sat right next to her, and Orlo Macnair next to him. He couldn’t name two more, they were so bland and showed no distinct traits for him to pick out. Huffing, he raised his eyes up across the hall just in time to catch Oliver Wood staring at him. Marcus glared a bit but averted his gaze first. He didn’t want to draw Pucey’s attention as well this early. Finally the food appeared in front of everyone and the older Slytherins took turns passing the basket of rolls around. Cassius took three for himself and then chucked two onto Flint’s plate, then handed it back to one of the girls to go down the table. 

“Well, Marcus,” Higgs said just loud enough to reach around the table, “When’s first practice then?” 

Everyone groaned and Flint rolled his shoulders back, straightening his spine, “Third week, first slot,” it was the earliest available booking on the pitch. The first two weeks were barred for flying lessons for the kids coming into first year as Hooch had a class nearly every hour of every day and the other faculty members felt a few weeks to settle in required complete concentration on schoolwork rather than sports and organizations.

“Did you fist fight Wood by the bulletin board for that?” Rhiannon Blishwick said next to his ear. She was a tiny thing with dark hair and the most peculiar mint green eyes. She and Tripe crammed next to each other on the bench so close he thought their thighs might fuse together. They were the only girls in the sixth year, which resulted in two girls as close as the only two seventh year Gryffindor boys: Weasley and Wood.

“Had Snape book it last week,” Flint grunted and that startled a full bodied laugh from their section of the table. The ruckus drew a bit of attention from everyone in the hall. He fought hard to keep his face set in his characteristic twisted frown, especially when he felt Oliver’s eyes on him again from across the room. 

“That’s fantastic,” Derrick butted in and reached across to try and ruffle Marcus’s hair. Flint leaned back as far as he could, hunching his shoulders and scowling until the idiot sat back down. Rhiannon patted him on the shoulder and he shrugged away from her delicate hand as she frowned in mock offense. 

“He must’ve been foaming at the mouth,” Miles added and pulled the plate of stargazy pie towards himself. He always hogged it but nobody really cared as they all found it disgusting. Carys Tripe, sitting next to him, pointedly threw a napkin in his lap. 

They continued to eat over the course of the next thirty minutes or so, going over some holiday excursions for those who’d left the country (the girls) and those who stayed behind. They all traded houses every few weeks, the pureblood families happily hosting multiple gatherings of young people, but there was always just that little bit missing that could only be shared over good food and good company as they all came together at once for the first time all summer. 

“Whose got the firsties?” One of the boys, Marcus didn’t see which, said. It sounded like they had a mouth full of food. Had to be Bletchley.

Carys sighed and grabbed Miles by the back of his robe’s collar. He dropped his spoon, full of the last bit of the stargazy pie, and followed her obediently. Flint shook his head and grabbed for the pumpkin juice as she dragged him down the table. He got halfway to the pitcher before his shoulder demanded a break and he jerked it back into his lap. Pucey eyed him with a stark frown and poured him a glass while Cassius and Terrence argued over who got the bed nearest to the door.

“There’s a Morgan in first year, Flint,” Derrick said quietly. Marcus looked up sharply. It was answer enough.

“Yeah,” Bole continued,” Heard her mum’s Gwendolyn Morgan, from the Harpies. Her name’s Valmai. Don’t know if you noticed her.”

Rhiannon sighed loudly and interjected, “It’s her _aunt_ ,” she reached over and flicked Bole’s nose, “and yes, Marc, she’s hoping to be a chaser.” 

Flint hummed again and looked back down at his plate. He tapped it with his wand and it vanished along with a number of other soiled dishes in the vicinity.

“Might make the reserves,” he said grudgingly when Adrian kicked him under the table. After that everyone seemed content to let him be his usual quiet self, if a little quieter than normal. 

Finally the dishes up and disappeared, much to the third years’ collective consternation, and Dumbledore gave a rousing speech of the most recent forbidden items, the forest, and goodnight salutations. Carys and Miles led the first years out in an orderly fashion ahead of the other houses, closely followed by the rest of the Slytherins led by the seventh years and in descending order down to the youngest second years. Marcus rather thought they looked like that muggle book about the little French girls at boarding school in two straight lines, but he wouldn’t say so.

The Carrow sisters, Flora and Hestia, could be heard giggling on the descent into the dungeons. Marcus felt a vein in his forehead twitch as the grating noise bounced off the stone. They were shushed by what sounded like Malfoy but then the unmistakable sound of somebody falling down stairs followed immediately. Then more giggling. 

“The password,” Carys said, her voice echoing a little, “is ‘Lineage’”. The stone door slid open and allowed the first years to enter. Marcus and Adrian let Tripe and Bletchley through and followed suit. The entire house crowded into the common room, lit by the quiet lanterns on the wall sconces and the ethereal glow of the lake shining through the window. Some phosphorescent plants were dancing in front of the glass and lighting it up even more. The flames in the grate were white tonight but that would change soon. Snape stood in the center of the room and clustered about him on the floor were the new arrivals. He was already starting in on ‘The Rules’ as the upper years liked to call them. Marcus beelined for the seventh year dorms and hustled down the stairs. Unlike the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor towers (not that Flint had _seen_ the Gryff tower from the inside… just the Ravens’ on a misguided dalliance with the eldest Rowle son) the dungeons couldn’t go up so the dorms were even deeper than the common room itself. The staircases wrapped around under the foundations to a point where if you looked at the blueprint they resembled an ouroboros. The seventh year boys dormitory, as luck would have it, was now at the bottom. This years’ first years would enjoy the coveted top spot for seven years. 

Marcus made his way down the stairs at a sedate pace, pausing every few steps to grip the bannister. The stone steps were slippery with moisture, he told himself, and continued on after a moment. He’d get it from Snape later for skipping the speech, but now nobody was following him.

Returning to school after summer vacation was always a blessing. The Flint manor was not what most would call homey while his father resided inside. While Atticus Flint refused to take the dark mark and actively spit on the idea of bowing to anyone, he did increasingly lean towards the dark lord’s ideals and pushed for the family to abandon their traditionally neutral standpoint and take on a more aggressive and darker hint in order to subtly support who the patriarch believed to be the winner in the war. The recent battles between Harry Potter and (supposedly) Lord Voldemort risen from the dead were concerning to Marcus but to his father they were a clear indication of the shift in power. 

Araminta Flint nee Lefrancois, his mother, stuck to her beliefs of neutrality and encouraged Atticus to look beyond his basic instincts. Although she never attended Hogwarts, Marcus was sure she’d have been a Slytherin based solely on her penchant for foresight and caution in the future. It might also have to do with their similar talent for minor divination, but that’s speculation.

Regardless, Flint Manor was _not_ a fun place to be. Even at 95 Atticus still looked like a muggle aged 60 or so and he still packed quite a punch when he was angry. Not that he stooped to muggle fist-fighting or pummeling, but his fondness for dueling was topped only by his fanaticism for raging dark lords and strange obsession with _Witch Weekly_ and _The Modern Potioneer_. On days when the Wizengamot didn’t meet Marcus was expected to be in the grand ballroom for ‘lessons’ just after morning tea, which basically amounted to an hour long grueling session where his father threw curses and Marcus attempted to block and return fire--not always successfully. 

Marcus opened the dormitory door and dragged his feet to his spot under the window. The lake-light streamed in to give the room a more bluish tone than it took in the daytime. Even with the sun shining directly down, the seventh year dorms were too deep under the lake to take in enough light. They enjoyed a stable temperature and calming darkness all hours of the day, every day of the year. His bed, like all the others in all the houses, stood on four posters and draped (unlike the others) in silver and green. He unclasped his cloak, flung it over one of the posts, and flopped gracelessly face-first into the soft down comforter. 

A scant two minutes later Adrian slunk into the room and hightailed it to his own four-poster. Unlike Marcus, he positively threw himself onto the blankets and barked the headboard against the wall. Marcus ignored him.

“Oi,” Adrian said, stretching his foot across the gap and poking Flint’s bed, “What’s the matter with you, then?” 

Flint didn’t answer, huffing a warm breath into the cloth of his pillow. Although Slytherins didn’t advertise it, some had tendencies to mother hen. The Pucey family, as it turned out, fit this bill almost every generation regardless of house. Adrian had two healer parents and three healer grandparents spread across St. Mungo's and two family practices; not only that, but for at least the last five generations at least one child from each set went on to become affiliated with the healer profession as either field medics on the auror corps or mind healers.

Luckily, Pucey also knew when to shut up. 

They laid in silence for a few moments before Warrington busted in. He moaned at the sight of Terrence’s belongings and luggage laid at the foot of the nearest bed and threw himself face down on the bed next to it. In all seven years, he’d only achieved the door bed once. Personally Marcus didn’t understand why they wanted it: first to wake up when somebody came in, first to get pranked/cursed/yelled at, etc. The drawbacks far outweighed the pros. 

Terrence strolled in shortly after and took a very showy and obnoxious march to ‘his’ bed with his nose in the air. He sat down regally and then lounged backwards, tossing a small white globe up and down in his palm. Miles finally blew in and started tossing around schedules while doing his best not to look harried. The Slytherins passed out timetables the night before so they weren’t unduly rushed in the morning. He tossed Flint’s on top of his back and Marcus arched away from it with a hiss, rolling over and grabbing it with his fist. He turned back around and shoved his face back into the pillow and tried to ignore the silence and pointed glare from Pucey on the opposite side. 

“Dare I ask?” Adrian said in the silence, which dragged out a few more seconds before Marcus deigned to answer.

“No.”

“You’re insufferable,” The blond stood up and stomped over to his friend and the other boys dutifully went about their business getting ready for bed even as they strained their ears to listen in. 

“Don’t bother, Pucey,” Marcus said, picking up his head and meerkat-ing around until he found Adrian, “I’ll be fine in the morn’. Just gotta go to sleep.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re a healer!” Adrian said and slapped his own cheek lightly with his mouth agape, “How did you do on your ministry certification? I took my junior’s this summer and, gee, it was really hard!” He reached down and grabbed the hem of Marcus’s jumper to pull it up but his wrist was clenched in the strong backhand of their Quidditch captain. 

“Don’t.” Flint said with finality. His silver eyes glared up from his prone position on the bed and Adrian made a face, hesitated another few moments, and released the shirt. He drifted back to his bed like a wronged kneazle. The other boys, temporarily frozen by the confrontation, jumped back into motion. Cassius stripped off everything but his pants and was well on his way to making his section of the room a veritable sty when Terrence rolled his eyes and flicked his wand, causing everything to start folding itself.

“I’m not living in your filth again this year, Warrington,” Terrence was combing out his wispy brown curls roughly and pointing the sharp end of the comb at the taller boy menacingly. 

Already crawling under the covers, Warrington waved a hand over at the irate seeker and burrowed into his own bed. Terrence shook his head and followed suit, waving his wand again and closing both Warrington and his own curtains. A muffled ‘thanks!’ came from beyond Cassius’s. 

Bletchley, returning from the bathrooms in his customary thick wool pajamas, eyed Adrian and then Marcus and then pointedly fixated on his bed. The last set of curtains closed and Pucey fired silencing spells at the three beds before turning to Marcus’s limp form. 

He stared at Flint’s closed eyelids, a bit dark and the veins stood out starkly, and rolled his wand between his hands for a moment. He considered just going forward with casting a diagnostic at least and straightened to do that when Marcus opened his eyes and pinned him to the bed.

“I mean it,” the dark haired boy said quietly, “I’ll be better in the morning.” 

“You better,” Adrian said after a few seconds of quiet. He stripped off his school sweater and tie, changed into his sleep clothes, and made to crawl underneath his blankets before turning back to Marcus and partially closing the other’s curtains for him. Flint nodded at him in thanks before turning his head away. His shoulders relaxed, even though he was still fully clothed from the feast including his shoes, and he dropped off to sleep in only a few moments after Adrian extinguished the final lantern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcus' schedule 7th year:
> 
> Monday Arithmancy + Divination  
> Tuesday Astronomy  
> Wednesday Herbology  
> Thursday Arithmancy + Astronomy  
> Friday Divination + Herbology
> 
> Slytherins-- * marks Quidditch team. i kept Urquhart off because maybe he joins later and I wanted Warrington on the team.
> 
> 7th yr slytherins  
> Miles Bletchley*  
> Cassius Warrington*  
> Marcus Flint*  
> Adrian Pucey*  
> Terrence Higgs  
> Tempestia Selwyn  
> Sophia Thurkell  
> Corinthe Vengal
> 
> 6th  
> Rhiannon Blishwick  
> Carys Tripe  
> Mulciber, Jr  
> Peregrine Derrick*  
> Lucian Bole*  
> Didimus Gibbon
> 
> 5th yr  
> Coriolanus Gage  
> Alexander Urquhart  
> Victoria Tremblay  
> Ursula Gamp  
> Hestia Carrow  
> Flora Carrow  
> Fiona Quinn
> 
> 4th yr  
> Elizabeth Vaisey  
> Louisa Burke  
> Calliope Rosier  
> Juniper Elwhistle  
> Merritt Ashe  
> Maximillien Max  
> Martin Fawley  
> Avery Jr.
> 
> 3rd yr  
> Draco Malfoy*  
> Blaise Zabini  
> Vincent Crabbe  
> Gregory Goyle  
> Theodore Nott  
> Tracey Davis  
> Millicent Bulstrode  
> Pansy Parkinson  
> Daphne Greengrass
> 
> 2nd  
> Astoria Greengrass  
> Diedre Travers  
> Elisandre Yaxley  
> Wanda MacDougal  
> George Meliflua  
> Gervaise Hopkirk  
> Peter Nibbs
> 
> 1st  
> Celeste Pyrite  
> Valmai Morgan  
> Kipper Mulciber  
> Orlo Macnair  
> Simon Griffiths
> 
> Quidditch 1993-1994
> 
> Gryff-Hufflepuf  
> Sly-Raven  
> Raven-Huff  
> Sly-Gryff  
> Sly-Huff  
> Gryff-Raven


	2. First Day of Class

Marcus didn’t stay exactly true to his word. 

Under the intense scrutiny of Pucey and his other friends, Flint forced himself to get up out of bed even though all he wanted to do was sink into the mattress for a few more hours. He cast a few clumsy cleaning and freshening charms on his clothes before Terrence zipped in, showering him in cleaning, freshening, wrinkle-vanishing, and grooming charms while Adrian showered. Flint gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder and gingerly bent to grab his satchel. Terrence was especially gifted with charms, and he should be. His mother earned her title of Charms Mistress just a few months after graduating Hogwarts back in the late 60s. Specializing in household maintenance and upkeep, her contribution to their textbooks was actually a rather simple diffusion charm meant to be cast on organic material to mend it. The solid oak table in their formal dining room in their Manchester townhouse had been chipped or scratched five times since she married Terrence’s father but nobody could tell.

Cassius was already gone by the time Adrian roused Marcus by shaking his bedpost. Cassius’s tightly curled, midnight hair piled on his head in a way that formed a pompadour in the front and he was obsessive about keeping it maintained, so he woke every morning earlier than everyone else. It helped that the earlier he rose, the sooner he could reach the great hall. Tall and burly, he managed to be almost rail thin and pack away enough food at meals that the elves had to restock their end sometimes. Bletchley often joined him, if only to try and catch Carys before class to ‘escort’ her.

Terrence waited a few minutes for Pucey to return, but at Marcus’s urging (and the nearing end to breakfast) he hurried away up the stairs. Marcus fiddled with the fastening on his cloak waiting for his friend. Adrian appeared and stared at Marcus’s looming figure near the beds and jerked his head towards the hall. He grabbed his bag and cloak as well and they waded through the first day rush up the stairs. 

Flint usually stood as a model for perfect posture after years of schooling and a pureblood upbringing, but he walked stiffly this morning. He could tell Pucey was just simmering waiting for him to make one wrong move.

“Alright?” Adrian said as they exited the common room. Tempestia Selwyn and Sophia Thurkell lingered on the stone staircase leading into the castle properly. They whispered to each other and looked up just in time for Corinthe Vengal to sweep past Adrian and Marcus to meet them. The trio of seventh year girls, the only ones in their year, hurried up the stairs together leaving the boys in the dust. 

Marcus and Adrian turned towards the turris magnus and the arithmancy classroom on the first floor. It could take nearly 10 minutes to reach directly from the dungeons--less if you came from the great hall but the two silently agreed to skip breakfast. Flint mourned missing out on his traditional first glare at Wood, but reasoned that not doing it would probably irritate the keeper more than adhering to tradition. 

Arithmancy was one of the few subjects Marcus felt confident in. Maths, like the muggleborns called it, were simple. They often went hand in hand with divination, as well, which was another subject he excelled in. The Flints and LeFrancois families churned out many skilled workers throughout the generations, but as a family the Flints tended towards two more than the rest: potioneers and arithmancers. When combined with the LeFrancois talents for divination and ancient runes, Marcus was destined to be at least mildly gifted towards those subjects. Only his mother’s family ever boasted a seer (one, over three hundred years ago), but since then only minor gifts of tarot, tea, dice, and astrology came to the LeFrancois descendants. 

They settled on a bench outside the Arithmancy room and Adrian tap-tap-tapped his fingertips on the front of his satchel in his lap. He never was good at waiting.

“How was your summer?” Flint said gruffly, trying to cut him off.

“It was a sight better than yours, I’m sure,” Pucey returned pointedly. Marcus shook his head, his lips pursing in a scowl. 

“He was barely home,” the taller one muttered for only Adrian to hear, “I only had to see him in the afternoons, sometimes earlier--dueling practice.” 

“Have you gotten any better at blocking?” Adrian said. He eyed Marcus’s long fingers curled tightly around his wand. The laurel wood had a slight reddish tint to it and a smoothly carved base. The handle bubbled up into a single wooden ball before the rest of the wand curled away, twisting in an extremely loose curl stretching 14 and a quarter inches. 

Marcus grunted, which was code for ‘no’. Flint wasn’t what most people would call talented at ‘practical’ wandwork. He didn’t take transfiguration or charms after their OWL year and in defense he did well in offensive spells but defensively he relied on quidditch reflexes to carry him away from the nastier spells and, much to his friends’ dismay, he preferred to just take minor hexes, curses, and jinxes without shielding. 

“I got faster,” Flint said, ever the optimist, “Will help with quidditch this year.” 

Adrian shook his head and decided to leave it be, “Well, have you dropped anything?” 

Marcus shook his head and offered his schedule for Adrian to look over. As usual since third year he enrolled in divination, arithmancy, ancient runes, astronomy and herbology. He had low hopes (if any) for passing the herbology NEWT, but figured if he stuck out six years he might as well try. At least seventh year students got to work with the nastier bits. This year he’d elected to drop potions (lost cause) and charms (he was pants at even the simplest scourgify, barely scraping an A on his OWL, a mere two points from a P). 

“You’ve stacked this year with theoreticals,” Pucey pointed out. His own schedule was a bit heftier with both charms and transfiguration along with arithmancy, runes, herbology, and potions. Both his father and mother pushed him to become a healer and he did have a talent for it, but it was a very hard profession to test into. The ministry required a NEWT of at least an O in potions, herbology, and charms before even allowing candidates to take the licensing exam. 

“Good at ‘em,” Marcus said blandly. He wasn’t lying. Ancient runes remained his lowest OWL at an A, competing with herbology. As long as he stuck to the subjects he knew, and those that remained sort of, kind of, partially subjective, he could do well. Many students at Hogwarts would look at his schedule and think he just skated by, taking easy classes to compensate for runes and arithmancy, but really he just stacked the odds in his favor for passing. 

“I know you want to do the quidditch thing,” Adrian started, “but you’ve got to think about marketable skills. Can you really do anything with this mish mash?” 

“Quidditch is a sure thing,” Marcus said stubbornly. This was the one thing he was truly confident in: he excelled at quidditch. The physicality came easily to his naturally athletic and coordinated frame, and the strategies came with practice he was only too eager to provide--plus his limited cunning, courtesy the sorting hat, contributed to his cutthroat playstyle. His family on the Flint side was mildly famous for churning out talented quidditch players every few generations, although they tended towards more traditional jobs like arithmancers and potioneers like his father. 

People started to flood the hall now. A few six year 'puffs stood on the side of the hallway on the raised bit jeering at passing underclassmen. The arithmancy room door let out a loud click and flung itself open, making a few first years jump and one scream. Her housemates shushed her and she rushed away, bright red. 

Marcus and Adrian gathered their things from the bench and shuffled in. Having maths this early in the morning was pure torture, in Flint’s opinion, but this was the only slot available with his other classes. He also had professor Vector on Thursday afternoons following lunch--another hardship. They took a spot in the second row in the amphitheater style classroom. The desks, if you could call them that, were really just long semi-circles to be shared amongst the students sat at them. The back row started at door level and it descended into the pulpit where Professor Vector kept her area completely empty except for a small floating box of chalk. A giant blackboard covered the vast majority of the wall from floor to ceiling. 

Vector traced equations on the top of the wall already, balancing on a tall ladder to write symbols near the ceiling. Angelina Johnson entered soon after, her braids twisted into a knot on the back of her head, and Alicia Spinnet followed her. A tall Ravenclaw girl with bright ginger hair and tiny square spectacles--Unetta Goshawk, William Todd, a muggleborn Ravenclaw, and Phil Gordon-Lennox, a halfblood from Hufflepuff, finished the assemblage.

“Everyone here, everyone here?” Vector turned around and the ladder bobbled a bit before the charms on the base steadied it, “Of course you are!” she said brightly and rapidly descended the rungs. She did roll call, greeting everyone warmly, and then exclaimed, “Seven! Excellent! The perfect number. Let’s have a lesson over ‘seven’, then, shall we?” And the first class of the year was off.

* * *

Divination showed more of the same. Trelawney, as crazy as the year before and every year prior, made them read tarot for each other. She announced towards the end of the two hour class that by winter break they should turn in a complete horoscope calendar for 1994 as well as a personalized tarot deck. She failed to mention if she expected the calendar to be day-by-day or monthly horoscopes, or if it should be for all the signs or just one in particular, but nobody wanted to ask. 

Marcus accompanied Pucey and Warrington, who joined them for divination alongside Sophia Thurkell, a gaggle of Hufflepuffs, and two acceptable Gryffindor girls (Spinnet and Johnson), to lunch but afterwards he had no more classes to attend. Herbology didn’t start until Wednesday and astronomy Tuesday night, leaving him mostly free throughout the week as divination met Mondays and Fridays and arithmancy Monday and Thursday. This left him with Tuesdays completely free (except for the late night trips to the tower). For some seventh years this would be ample time to study, but Marcus used it to go out on the pitch.

The first two weeks were reserved for basic flying instruction every day and Madam Hooch was nothing if not a slavedriver. Only two students in the last fifteen years wound up injured (Longbottom for one) on her watch and she took great pride in it. She was also only too happy to have Marcus come by and volunteer to help her on Tuesdays (at least). 

As quidditch captain, Flint enjoyed the powers of a prefect with little to none of the responsibility. He quite liked their bathroom, but rooming with Bletchley and sharing a breakfast bench with Tripe prevented him from even thinking of abusing his points related powers. Sometimes he’d give a first year a few points for something ridiculous (last year Wanda MacDougal and George Meliflua received five points each for  _ not losing _ any points in a week) and rarely he gave some to his quidditch teammates. Madam Hooch split the class in two with strict instructions to the 11 year old Hufflepuffs to  _ obey Mr. Flint, here, or you’ll find yourselves on the wrong end of a bludger _ . Flint knew that she enchanted the pitch with generous  _ spongify _ charms to cushion any falls (after the disastrous first class of 1991) but he still ordered the badgers to keep only a few feet off the ground. The sea of yellow and black shimmering up at him showed small faces looking confusedly up at him. 

He sighed and jerked his wand. Half the brooms from the other end of the pitch sped over and roughly lined themselves up in front of the jumpy preteens. His presentation certainly wasn’t as pretty as Madam Hooch’s or even Pucey’s if he were there, but like most things he could muscle enough magic into it to make them obey. 

Flint stretched out his hand over the school-issue Cleansweep VII, gesturing for the others to do the same. Thirteen children glanced at each other and back at Madam Hooch, unsure how to act when the upperclassmen barely spoke. Marcus sighed.

“Stretch out your ‘ands,” He said slightly impatiently, “and call ‘up’,” His broom smacked into his hand with a resounding smack, “It’ll come to you.” 

The children all opened their mouths and gasped “Oh!” at each other and then giggled, but almost simultaneously stretched their hands out like Marcus and a chorus of ‘up!’s filled the yard, echoed from Madam Hooch’s end. Immediately one or two smacks came out followed by two girlish squeals. Two girls near the end of either line gleefully waved their brooms at each other and danced on their feet. Marcus tried not to grin and covered it with his characteristic bland face, careful not to pull one of his scarier scowls. Some of the other kids looked put out, although one boy stubbornly kept shouting ‘up!’ at his dangerously still broom. 

“If it doesn’t happen at first, just try again,” He said in what he supposed was meant to be an encouraging tone. The ‘puffs seemed to shrug at each other and reached out their hands. On the second and third ‘up’s there were much more smacks, though the stubborn boy’s broom stayed down. He looked fit to burst into tears. Marcus approached and slowly reached out his hand above the broom.

“Up,” he commanded and the broom didn’t move at all. He nudged it with his foot and it rolled over on the grass while he frowned at it. 

“Not your fault, kid,” he said gruffly and reached down to pick up the dead broom, “‘s just a bad broom.” He threw his Cleansweep down on the ground and gestured for the boy to try again.

With a slightly wobbly lip he said, “Up!” and the broom zipped into his hand. His friends on either side cheered and congratulated him and he subtly wiped at his face before turning a smile on Marcus, who gave him a thin, straight mouth in an approximation of friendliness.

“Five points to Hufflepuff,” he said to the group at large on a whim. They all seemed immensely gratified, “For not whinging and having a good go of it the first day,” he snarked. One or two giggled again.

“Straddle the brooms and kick off, then lean forward a bit,” He said when the laughter died down. Madam Hooch’s group was just doing the same, “but not too far or you’ll crash into the stands.”

Looking a little pale, the group obediently came over the brooms. At least most of them had to be, at minimum, half-bloods because a majority seemed very comfortable with brooms. The few obviously muggleborns seemed more wobbly but nothing too terrible. The boy standing nearest to Marcus, with mousy brown hair and watery blue eyes covered in large square spectacles, started to climb increasingly higher into the sky before Flint noticed. At two meters in he started kicking in a panic and the captain jumped up to grab his broom just under the boy’s hands, dragging him back down to the ground with his weight. 

“Lean back,” He said lowly to the kid when he sank down to waist height. The first year leaned back obnoxiously far and the broom hovered normally. To the group at large Marcus said loudly, pointing at Madam Hooch, “Let’s join the Madam. Don’t go too high and don’t go fast,” he yelled after the students zipping away. The first years laughed loudly and a few started up a race immediately while Marcus slouched over to the other group, touting the dead broom in his fist. 

“Finished then?” Hooch asked, her golden eyes sweeping over the tiny children. Flint shook his head.

“This one’s dead,” He thrust out the stick to her and she took it, ran her hand over the hilt, and hummed.

“That it is, Flint, thanks,” She smiled at him and they stood together to watch the kids float around. Marcus gratefully stood in silence next to the tall woman. She remained one of the few professors at Hogwarts he could stand to be around longer than the required time. She didn’t speak often and had an appreciation of flying few could boast, except maybe Flint himself--or maybe Oliver Wood. 

The first lesson always revolved around basic balance and summoning, never actual flight or speed. Over the coming year the students would gradually gain height allowances and near the end they’d be playing mock games of quidditch between themselves. Before Longbottom’s year the class lacked a lot of structure, but his fall from nearly fifteen meters up necessitated a change for the Madam. When Flint came into school in the late 80s, she still made the purebloods and halfbloods separate from the muggleborns without testing to see who could fly at all. Murphy Twpsyn, a halfblood in Ravenclaw, had never flown a day in his life and nearly broke his neck in their third lesson. 

An hour passed by quickly this way and Flint was pleased when Hooch invited him back the next Tuesday and any other day he found himself bored after lunch. Although she disapproved of his less than sportsmanlike conduct sometimes, the woman also understood that quidditch was as much strategy as it was a fun pastime. 

Marcus beat it before she dismissed the first years, jogging up the path back to the school to beat the bell. He really had nowhere to be but didn’t want to be caught with the little kids. As he exited the covered bridge he made full-body contact with another male; both of them fell to the ground in a heap with Flint on the bottom.

“You great big brute!” Percy Weasley said loudly from above. He loomed over Flint and who now was clearly Oliver Wood with a disapproving stare, “Three points from Slytherin for rushing!” 

Marcus rolled his eyes and tried not to move for a moment. His back screamed at him in righteous anger and started up again when Wood pushed his palms into his chest to push himself up. Despite his resolve, Marcus hissed and grabbed Wood’s wrists to make him stop moving. 

“What’re you doin’ skipping around out here anyway, Flint?” The Scotsman said. He wriggled his hands, blushing a dark red as he was somewhat crouched over Flint’s supine form. Flint belatedly released him and Wood stood up, dusted himself off, then offered the taller boy a hand up. Flint slowly took it with a glare and stood stiffly in place once on his feet. 

The two Gryffindors stared at him expectantly until finally he huffed, “Late.” 

It wasn’t an excuse and it certainly wasn’t the truth, but they both nodded as if that made complete sense. Percy still looked incredibly disapproving. He’d probably never been less than ten minutes early to any class in his life, and Oliver dragged alongside him. Wood looked at Marcus strangely.

“Are you alright? You did land on the bottom,” He said cheekily. Flint didn’t move but tried to straighten his shoulders where they’d hunched down in a slump.

“Fine,” He said shortly and turned around to march the rest of the way up to the large doors. They were probably coming from CoMC if Marcus thought right. The half-giant’s house was sending up plumes of smoke and the faint screeches of what sounded like hippogriffs echoed up the hill. There was furious muttering behind him before the two seventh years caught up with him, one on each side. Percy pointed his nose in the air and his eyes staunchly forward to ignore him most efficiently. Wood wrapped a friendly arm around his shoulder like they were best mates. His arm pressed uncomfortably against Marcus’s back and he arched away from it. Wood’s hand tightened on his shoulder. 

“Saw you got the first practice slot, you bugger,” the keeper said with what looked like a pout, “I rushed there first thing off the train and you’d already snatched it up. How’d you manage?”

Flint thought about ignoring him or shoving him off, but deemed the effort too much. After a few meters of silence he finally answered with some smugness, “Mailed Snape.” 

Percy whipped around with his jaw agape, outraged at the inherent unfairness most likely. Wood laughed out loud and shoved the doors open with his foot to help hustle them all inside. Marcus shook his head and prayed they weren’t headed to the great hall or in that direction.

“You’re such a twat,” Oliver said. His voice sounded, of all things, fond. Marcus decided to ignore it even as the shorter boy got closer to him to squeeze past some plucky second year ravens. He didn’t move away and his arm pressed, again, against Flint’s back. This time Marcus worked to separate himself just outside the hall doors.

“You alright there, Flint?” Wood said with a frown. Weasley also eyed him with suspicion. Marcus nodded jerkily and hurried into the hall. Already there were a number of people gathering for what Bole called ‘the early bird special’, or four o’clock dinner. It wasn’t really dinner as the actual meal wasn’t served until half five, but enough people gathered as a makeshift study hall and quietly requested light foods like fruits or biscuits that it wasn’t odd to see so many people at that time. 

The Slytherin made his way to the end of the house table and slid onto the bench, taking the coveted final seat. None of his friends had arrived yet but Corinthe and Tempestia sat stiff backed on the opposite side. Corinthe gave him a flirty wink before marking something on her parchment. Tempestia frowned and reached into the basket in the center of the table, withdrew an apple, and threw it at him. He caught it and bit into it in the same movement, making both girls wince with a quiet but emphatic, “Ew!”

He flipped open his text for arithmancy. Vector assigned them four feet on the golden three, which is three, seven, and thirteen in arithmancy, with at least a foot on each one. He settled in to work on it and steadfastly did  _ not _ look at the Gryffindor table. 

Nearer to the actual dinner time the rest of the 7th and 6th year Slytherins started to trickle in. Marcus’s friends hurried to their end of the table followed by Mulciber, who emphatically did not want to be called Junior on pain of death, Peregrine, who everyone called Perry even after loud protests, and Bole and Gibbon, who rolled in with Carys trapped between them desperately trying to mediate an argument. The Carrow twins and Fiona Quinn, 5th years, stomped past the Hufflepuff table throwing glares at some sixth year reading a book and then sat down, plonking their bags in all the seats around them to save space for the other fifth years who were always late. The dinner bell rang and the flood of first and second years bled through the doors, which were suddenly too small to let everyone in, and the din rose to almost unmanageable. The third years were conspicuously absent. 

Pucey took the seat next to Marcus and grappled with Higgs for one of the last rolls, which Mulciber snapped up and launched down the table to smack his little brother, Kipper, in the head. Another basket appeared promptly filled to the brim with warm bread while Carys and Corinthe harped on table manners. Flint attempted to sink into the wood grain and made the mistake of looking up, immediately catching Wood’s eye. 

Oliver smiled slightly and waved a roll in a quick, minute gesture. Flint, despite himself, nodded briefly and ducked back down. Wood’s behavior confused him.  
  


* * *

Tuesday Marcus spent languishing in his empty dorm room until the unholy hour of 1 pm, and even then he only came out because tiny Celeste Pyrite, with her smooth toffee colored skin, curly hair done up in twin braided buns on top of her head and two high spots of bronze on her cheeks from entering the boys’ dorm, roused him by throwing his backpack on top. She squeaked and sprinted out of the room when he poked his head out from under the covers, apparently embarrassed to see Flint’s bare shoulders. He shrugged and got dressed anyway. 

The common room at this hour only hosted the four girls from fourth year and two boys obviously skipping their first year curriculum already. Marcus eyeballed them on his way to the door and both of them gathered their things with red ears. Outside the door, fourth year boy Maximilian Max (MM to his friends) crouched by a suit of armor. Flint walked past and didn’t comment because frankly he didn’t want to know. 

Since he woke up so early, Marcus figured he could swing by the library and grab a few sources for his arithmancy essay. The class came easy to him, numbers always had, but you couldn’t just say things you just knew for some reason and you had to prove somebody else said it first, which always seemed ridiculous to him. He passed another group of rowdy second year Gryffindors coming out of the library chased by a blonde Ravenclaw girl with no shoes before entering the stacks. Madam Pince sat behind the desk with her tiny spectacles on a chain around her neck, squinting at tiny fine print in an ancient tome. He was just about to head to the Arithmancy section when somebody grabbed his elbow.

The hand jerked him behind the shelves and he caught a look at the back of Oliver Wood’s head. They reached the end of the aisle and the keeper turned around, crossing his arms over his chest. Marcus concentrated on not looking anywhere but Oliver’s brown doe eyes. 

“What classes are you in?” Wood said abruptly. Marcus squinted at him with a small scowl on his lips then crossed his arms to mirror the shorter boy. 

“What’s it t’you?” Even though one of his hands was already subtly fishing around in his robe pocket for his schedule. 

“I need to know when I can get a practice in when you’re not gonna be hoofin’ it ‘round the pitch and stealing all the slots on the calendar,” Oliver replied quickly. His eyes were already fixated on Flint’s shoulders and chest where his hand was wiggling around. Finally Flint produced the small slip of extremely wrinkled paper and flashed it at the Scottish boy. Wood grabbed it out of his hand.

“These are all basically the same class!” he complained, “Arithmancy, divination, astronomy… those are like three sides o’ the same coin, ye daft bugger,” the boy’s large hands made the paper look even smaller and more bleached than it actually was, “What’re you in runes for? Thought you failed that OWL? And herbology? You hate plants!” 

Flint rolled his eyes and snatched back the paper to stuff in his robes. He didn’t answer but really, Oliver didn’t look like he expected one. The shorter brunette pursed his lips and put his hands on his hips. 

“What days’re you plannin’ on practicing?” He demanded.

“None o’ your business, Wood,” Marcus said, “I know you need all the tips you can get, but some of us have honor.” That dig turned Wood’s ears dark red and he let out a growl of certain wrath. 

“You pillock, I just want to know so I can get opposite days ahead of time!” 

“Can’t help with the ‘claws or ‘puffs,” Marcus said genially and leaned back on the bookcase. He tried to rest only his upper shoulders on the wood but Oliver seemed to notice him arching away from it and raised his eyebrows.

“Hurt yourself over holidays?” He asked innocently and Marcus straightened up with no warning, scowling fiercely at the shorter boy. 

“None o’ your business,” he said grumpily, “‘sides, Slytherin’s got the pitch Monday even’ins and Thursday mornin’s.” He figured it was better to offer Oliver something in exchange for letting him escape. In the Slytherin dorms that would work. It didn’t with a Gryffindor. 

“Good, but seriously are you ok?” The idiot looked genuinely concerned. Marcus took a step away towards the exit of the aisle. Wood dogged his steps.

“I’m fine. Leave it,” He said warningly and turned around to leave. Oliver placed a hand on his shoulder and attempted to turn him around, succeeding only in getting a gasp of pain from the Slytherin. He immediately released Marcus and apologized.

“‘M sorry,” he said and tried to get in front of Marcus, “What’s wrong? Did you fall off your broom?” He said it a bit hopefully, “Have you been to the infirmary?” 

“Not going to the hospital wing, Wood,” Marcus said and shoved past the keeper again, this time gaining ground away from him. Glad he left his cloak in his dorm, he started back down to the dungeons. When he arrived, he realized he never did get that arithmancy book. 

* * *

Astronomy was terrible in the way that all midnight classes were. Only three seventh years decided to continue their education past fifth year aside from Marcus. Robert Davies and Penelope Clearwater of Ravenclaw and Percy Weasley from Gryffindor. Penelope and Percy looked to be setting up for some canoodling and Robert had his telescope propping up his entire head as he snored into the tripod. Marcus spent the entire class period sketching out an outline for his divination calendar and doodling the constellations in the margins. 

Herbology opened another can of worms--no pun intended. All the missing Hufflepuffs from his other two classes coalesced into greenhouse two with a whopping six NEWT students from that house alone. Three others from Ravenclaw plus Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell shared a bench with Percy Weasley. Adrian joined him at the Slytherin table and just when the bell finished ringing Oliver Wood burst in. Sprout shook her head in disappointment and started lecturing, bustling Wood over to the uneven Slytherin table for even groups of three across the board. Fifteen students in a NEWT level class was unheard of, but Marcus had extremely low hopes of getting even an A. The diagrams all looked the same to him come test day and only a third of the final grade came from the practical. 

Thursday showed another arithmancy lesson and another midnight astronomy burst slogging through the luminosity variants of blue giants versus white dwarfs. Another four foot essay on the difference between the classifications of stars plus another foot on a star of their choice. Marcus chose Rigel. He couldn’t wait until they progressed past numbers and placements and into astrology like he preferred. 

Friday came and with it another try at divination. They began class with a cup of tea, which Sophia said tasted just dreadful but which Marcus personally thought was quite nice after the disgusting batch of pumpkin juice over breakfast. Warrington and Pucey shared his opinion and they paired off, Pucey and Flint and Warrington and Sophia, to do more tarot readings and do more drafts of their horoscope calendars. Then suddenly it was afternoon and Adrian and he bustled into the herbology greenhouse once again. Wood already sat at the table looking glumly at Percy chatting up the girls. The girls looked just as down.

Adrian slapped his books on the table and pushed Flint into the middle seat. Sprout started them all on potting various mushrooms, specifically the bursting and deadlyius varieties--both useful in potions as well as quite poisonous. Adrian poked one with his wand and muttered to Marcus, “These grow in that crevice down in the dungeons,” and Marcus had to nod because they were remarkably similar. Wood looked disturbed. 

Sprout left them alone for the first hour, allowing them to plant their mushrooms in peace, and left written instructions on the board for an essay due next Friday about the Venomous Tentacula. Adrian, about halfway through the two hour lesson, wandered over to the Ravenclaws ostensibly to pump one of them for information about Charms. In the lull, Oliver took his chance. 

“You alright now?” he said quietly, his gloved hands covered in soil.

“Was never off,” Marcus replied, equally quiet. He shoved a fistful of nutrient pellets into the dirt of his pot and buried them with another handful of dirt, “Mind your business, Wood.” 

Oliver bit his lip and looked up at him with his dark eyes. On a girl, that meant she liked you. On Wood, Marcus didn’t know what to make of it. 

“You were hurt. I saw,” Oliver said with a stubborn set to his jaw. Marcus looked over to the Ravenclaws and Pucey was still in a flirtatious conversation with one of the girls and a Hufflepuff boy. 

“You didn’t  _ see _ anything, Wood,” Flint said. He ducked his head back down and patted at the soil. His lonely mushroom in the pot was nice and fat with a glossy purple sheen on top. With proper care, by the end of the month it should’ve sprouted a few babies to harvest for the potions classroom. 

“I know what I saw, and I know what you didn’t say,” The Gryffindor hissed. He pulled off one of his gloves and then the other, tossing them in the bucket by their feet. Marcus was too slow to react as the brunette reached out and gently touched the back of his school jumper. He arched away from the touch instinctively even though after a week it didn’t hurt nearly so much. Oliver’s hand felt like a hot iron on the small of his back and his dark eyes implored him to tell the truth.

“I’m fine now,” Flint bit out finally. Adrian glanced over and furrowed his brow, no doubt noticing Flint’s very telling face. Oliver seemed to take that admission better than outright denial even as he rubbed his overly large hand up Marcus’s spine before pulling away discreetly. 

“Good. It’s my job to rough you up,” Oliver said with an equal amount of gruffness in his tone. Adrian reached their table and eyed Flint carefully, then nudged his way in the middle of the two quidditch players pointedly. He gave Wood a smarmy grin and flashed Marcus a wink when Oliver scowled back. Coincidentally, Professor Sprout chose that moment to re-enter the greenhouse.

“I hope you’ve all given the lovelies a nice bit of moisture and planned out a good, dark spot! I want lots of little spouts next time we bring them out!” She said and dismissed them a bit early, ten minutes before the bell. Marcus and Adrian rushed off, leaving a greenhouse full of confused seventh years behind and one pouty Gryffindor.


	3. The Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the 7th years form a study group, the Slytherins wiggle out of the first game, and Marcus and Oliver meet in a hallway.

The next few weeks flew by in the way that the beginning of the year never did. October took forever to arrive and by the first of the month, Marcus drilled the quidditch team with a heightened sense of fanaticism only exhibited by his self proclaimed rival in Gryffindor. His classes, all hard theory and no practicals except herbology, piled on the homework faster than he could do it, which came as no surprise, but the assignments themselves seemed easier. Was he getting better or did the teachers just have sympathy for the beleaguered seventh years?

He continued to bump into Weasley and Wood on his way back from Madam Hooch’s hybrid Puff-Raven class. The Hufflepuffs didn’t fear him but they also didn’t seem to realize who he was at all, so he’s not sure whether or not to be offended. On the flip side of that, Cedric never showed any fear towards him at all so maybe it's a prerequisite of the house. Oliver and Percy stopped asking where he came from after the third week of non-answers and Marcus, from that point on, made do with the two irritants following him to the great hall every Tuesday. Percy felt the need to ask him over and over what arithmancy and divination went over that morning and after repeated shrugs Flint broke down.

“Why d’you need to know?” He finally asked. Of his classes, those remained the only two he had freedom from Weasley.

“Because of my heavy workload,” he managed to sound pompous even here, pushing his glasses up his nose and shoving it in the air, “I take divination and arithmancy with the sixth years and Professors Trelawney and Vector have encouraged me to find a fellow seventh year to commiserate with.”

And that’s how Marcus Flint came to spend Tuesday afternoons in the library with Percy Weasley and Oliver Wood. 

The first few meetings mostly featured a jumble of Weasley going, “And then what?” in regards to a retelling of  _ every single class period _ since the beginning of the year and Wood throwing paper airplanes directly into the nearest fireplace, then doodling in his textbooks. After they caught up to just the previous lesson’s events, Weasley pushed and prodded until the other two agreed to have a small study group. As soon as the other boys in Flint’s dormitory figured out where he disappeared every Tuesday after lunch, it didn’t take long for Higgs and Pucey to force their way in. When they joined, the strange group quickly gathered Unetta Goshawk from Ravenclaw and (rarely) sixth year Cedric Diggory. Oliver apparently felt a bit outnumbered and Alicia and Angelina started appearing off and on by the third week of October. By Halloween they needed two tables and the group attracted frequent visits from ickle firsties and brave second years. Rhiannon Blishwick and Carys Tripe occasionally walked to the library with the Slytherin boys but always continued on to the Charms room, their steps dogged by Lucian Bole and Didimus Gibbon. 

Flint considered himself a bit lucky as most of the girls joining also took his divination and arithmancy classes and Weasley attached himself to them almost quicker than Flint excused himself of that duty. Marcus relegated himself to the end of one of the tables, bumping elbows with Adrian as he opportunistically pumped everyone for extra notes in his chosen subjects. Terrence usually busied himself trying to get Unetta to accompany him on the first Hogsmeade visit much to her never ending frustration. 

Wood took up the spot directly opposite Marcus and very rarely did any schoolwork at all. He claimed Percy made him do it all every night for at least an hour before he was ‘allowed’ to do anything quidditch related. Marcus didn’t know how he refrained from murdering the ponce.

The Halloween feast showed the return of Sirius Black and his attempted break into Gryffindor tower, but no Slytherin could bring themselves to be overly worried. Marcus spared some thought for Spinnet and Johnson, who he reluctantly considered a bit more than acquaintances, and definitely none for Wood or Weasley at all because Weasley was a ponce (who helped him with his runes homework) and Wood was… Wood.

In November the study group turned to studying for midterms and suddenly Flint was very popular at the end of the table. The Gryffindors all insisted on looking at his astrology calendar and his personalized tarot deck (both due before Winter holidays), then asking him what  _ exactly _ made the Hierophant different from the High Priestess in the major arcana. 

“ _ Why _ are you good at divining, of all things?” Wood asked curiously as Flint tried to bury his nose in his arms. 

“Yes,” Percy said in his stuffy manner, “What are you taking, anyway? I only see you in herbology and runes.

Adrian smirked and leaned in conspiratorially, whispering so Pince wouldn’t hear and bustle over, “He’s got divination, arithmancy, and astronomy.” He smirked like it was a big joke. 

Wood frowned, “That’s three of the same subject!” he protested, echoing his own complaints from weeks before, and Higgs finally snorted.

“That’s what we said, but the professors don’t give a rat’s arse,” He poked his wand against Marcus’s textbook and turned the cover neon pink. Flint snarled and made to heave it at his head but Adrian snatched it up and changed it back for him.

“They’re just related,” He said shortly and the girls nodded in support. That’s the real reason he liked them--put up with them. 

Spinnet jumped in immediately by firing a balled up piece of parchment at Percy’s curls. It bounced onto the table blamelessly.

“They really are. Herbology’s just an offset of potions if you think about it,” she said and Percy let out a squawk.

“It is not! If anything potions would come after herbology because you need to know the properties of the plants before you toss them in a pot. It’s a valuable subject all on its own,” Percy said but he did admonish Oliver, “And besides, all the subjects provide helpful basics and advanced curriculum after OWL year to promote a safe career in any field. Otherwise I wouldn’t be taking all the options.”

The redhead dragged Marcus’s calendar in front of himself again and started looking at the small star chart on each month, opening a discussion with the girls about the tarot cards themselves. Higgs tried to get Unetta to agree to a private tutoring session in ‘charms’ with a strange leer on his face. To her credit, she invited him to the Ravenclaw study group on Fridays. Pucey laughed so loud they got shushed by Pince and then busied himself with a potions essay.

Marcus shook his head and watched Oliver open his copy of  _ Quidditch for the Ages _ . The pages were all bent with years of earmarks and almost every paragraph had little highlights and underlines. The keeper kept his nose close to the paper and read it as if it were the first time all over again. Flint shook his head and reached into his bag for his correspondence.

A light yellow envelope sealed with a snidget shaped wax seal fell towards the table when he upended his bag over it. In delicate, thin script in a royal purple color it read ‘ _ Marcus Acacius Flint; Slytherin House’ _ . Wood snatched it up with a deft hand as it fell and turned it over in his hands curiously.

“Your mum?” He said innocently and Marcus huffed a sigh, stretching out his hand impatiently. Wood placed the envelope in his hand after one last look. 

Flint broke the seal and tossed it on his belongings in the center of the table before folding up the flap and extracting his letter. His mother wrote in all French for nearly four pages. It usually took him a day or two to devote time enough to read it in entirety and then another few days to send a reply. She preferred French and while he spoke it fluently and wrote well enough, his penmanship was horrendous. He often bribed Rhiannon to either write for him or allow him to use her penmanship quill.

He flipped to the third page where she began discussing plans for visiting  _ pays natal _ \--her home country--over the winter holidays. Wood reached out and scooped up the golden bit of wax on the table and ran his fingers over it, bending it back into the correct, flat shape from where Marcus had curled it away from the paper.

“This is House Flint, right?” He said slowly and a few of the girls turned their way. Alicia reached out a hand and ran her fingertip over the tiny outline of the bird. Marcus hummed back in a kind-of affirmative tone. 

Adrian decided to be more direct, “The snidget, yes,” he said quickly, “The Flints love their birds. Keep a little flock of their own in the conservatory at the manor, don’t you, Marc?” 

Marcus wrinkled his nose at the nickname. Nobody dared to call him that in public usually but Adrian, like Cedric, enjoyed immunity to Flint’s many rougher qualities. He hummed again and sank lower in his seat.

“You’ve got snidgets?” Oliver said, gaping, “I thought you had to have a permit for those?” 

Percy nodded but Flint shook his head, “The  Reservation ’s near the manor. We’ve raised ‘em for years.” He referred to the  Modesty Rabnott  Snidget Reservation in Somerset county which was, truthfully, barely an hour's walk directly from Flint Manor. His mother loved the tiny creatures and their dazzling color and loved to pair them decoratively with her own House’s fwooper sigil. 

“They’re classified XXXX,” Percy objected loudly and got them aggressively shushed once more, this time by the bushy haired third year Gryffindor in the corner. Flint shrugged and glanced down to finish the letter. The other three pages lay on the table in his heap of parchment. The other students seemed to know he wouldn’t be participating anymore in conversation and drew back to themselves. Except Oliver.

“You speak French?” He said and took one of the pages in hand, turning it upside down as if that would allow him to read it better. Flint snatched it back.

“Am French,” he said shortly. Oliver looked mildly surprised.

“Why don’t you go to Beauxbatons then?” He asked innocently. He had no way of knowing that that battle was fought for years amongst his parents and almost made it into his mother’s marriage contract.

“I did primary in France,” he said simply and tried to leave it at that. Oliver didn’t let him.

“Really? Where?” Fuck him for being so innocently curious, Marcus thought. 

“Brumeux,” he said and Angelina twisted around again to butt in.

“In France?” Marcus nodded tightly and she continued, “I love it there! My mother and I spent two weeks over the summer in one of the inns. It’s huge!” 

Marcus nodded again and tried to hold onto whatever calm he possessed deep within himself so he didn’t just get up and leave. Adrian saved him.

“It’s only a little bigger than Hogsmeade, really,” he said quickly and quietly to rescue everyone from the librarian, “The Paris integrated quarter is bigger, actually.” Marcus nodded along with a stiff expression. Oliver looked thoughtful and the conversation eventually petered out, everyone gathering their things and heading off to dinner. Marcus tossed his things in his pack and threw it over his shoulder. He’d do his astronomy homework later, after a nap.

* * *

The first quidditch match of the season, much to Oliver’s fury, set between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Harry Potter took a dive from two-hundred meters up and Diggory caught the snitch as Potter slammed into the ground with a crunch even though Dumbledore slowed him down pretty well. Diggory took honor to another level (a much more tasteful one in Marcus’s opinion) and pushed for a rematch but with little results. The storm raged around the professors booth and all the students huddled for warmth as the Gryffindors swarmed the field and hospital wing. 

Marcus couldn’t be arsed to give two shits about the little third year, but he still found himself outside the infirmary doors nearing curfew. His little alcove hosted a small pedestal with the bust of some old bird with crooked eyeglasses and wild hair. Even in stone she looked like a mass of snakes on an aged face. Only by the good grace of Merlin himself was Flint spared from listening to her speak as marble was notoriously unyielding. 

He hid there for a while and busied himself trying to practice a few charms from fifth year he never got the hang of. He only succeeded in slicking the floor and fluffing a nearby tapestry accidentally. 

Soon enough the terrible twins scooted out of the infirmary like bat bogeys. They darted around the corner before Oliver even poked his head out. Marcus barely got a glimpse of the dimmed hospital room full of teachers and Potter’s two friends before Wood was slumping past with that defeated slope to his shoulders. Rolling his eyes and huffing out a quiet breath, Flint followed him. 

It’s not like he tried to hide. His heavy footsteps and increasingly loud irritated mumblings should’ve, by all rights, attracted even a tiny bit of attention. After a few halls Marcus stopped being irritated and started feeling a little concerned for the keeper’s wellbeing. Granted, Marcus didn’t really want to be his bodyguard but apparently somebody needed to follow the idiot around to make sure he didn’t get jumped. Finally, as they neared the base of Gryffindor Tower and the switchback staircases, Flint cleared his throat loudly. 

Oliver nearly leapt into the ceiling. He shrieked in a very manly fashion and bravely hid behind the nearest suit of armor to brandish his wand. Marcus stood there silently judging with his eyes rolled skyward. 

“What the bloody, buggering  _ fuck _ are you doing?” The Scotsman asked rudely. Flint inspected his fingernails for a moment and leaned against the bannister. 

“Just wanted to ask you how Potter’s doing,” he aimed for innocent but no doubt missed by a wide margin. Oliver’s eyes narrowed to slits and he stomped over to the taller boy while shoving his wand back into his sleeve. Wood poked him in the sternum with a bony finger and gathered closer still until he had to crane his neck nearly all the way back to look up at Flint’s face. 

“You know very well how he is! I’m sure you snakes were just laughing it up when he tumbled out the sky and Diggory ended the game!” He hissed. Marcus rolled his eyes and straightened from his slouched position so Wood had to step back to look at him properly. 

“Oh please,” He said condescendingly, “That weather was only category three. You flew in worse at his age and so did I!” The 1989-1990 season was rife with windstorms and hurricanes sweeping into Scotland. Compared to that, the storm that threw Harry Potter (barring the dementors) barely merited goggles. 

Wood snorted and poked him again in the center of his chest. Flint, in the back of his mind, hoped it would bruise. 

“He nearly got the life sucked out of him from five hundred meters up! Only reason he’s not dead is ‘cause of Dumbledore!” Wood looked furious and righteously, horribly attractive. 

“Well tie him to the bloody broom next time,” Flint replied. Why did he want to talk to Wood again?

The keeper flushed and licked his lips (Marcus couldn’t help but notice), “You should talk about sticking it out,” he said and Marcus knew where this was headed, “How’s that scratch on Malfoy’s arm? Still resisting magical healing in a never-before-seen manner that will never be seen again?” 

Flint rolled his eyes again and grabbed Oliver’s wrist from where he still poked him, “His father asked me personally to postpone,” he said quietly. He didn’t know why he wanted Oliver to understand this. Slytherin affairs stayed in the dormitory and in letters and definitely  _ not _ shared with nosy, pretty Gryffindors. 

“Yeah, just like his father paid to outfit the entire team with professional brooms,” Oliver shot back. Marcus groaned in frustration and slumped uncharacteristically backwards to fling his arms at the bannister behind him. Wood stared at him bewildered.

“You don’t understand,” Flint said at length with a significant pause.

“Help me,” Wood demanded, “Explain to me why you accepted such a terrible leg-up when you knew we’d do much worse than take the mickey if you lost. Explain why you let that little ferret squirm his way out of a fair and legal game to please his da.”

Marcus gritted his teeth and looked away at the portraits not-so-subtly eavesdropping. Like it or not, Malfoy’s father had a lot of power in the real world. The Malfoys headed one particular voting block in the Wizengamot and controlled more than a half-dozen votes either through proxy or outright lordships, not to mention alliances and favors owed by certain people. The Flints also headed a block but until his father passed on they would be locked in gridlock with the elder Malfoy as Atticus Flint agreed entirely too much with Lucius’s ideals if not his methodology. Marcus was  _ encouraged _ to keep a friendly equilibrium with the Malfoy heir… although luckily Draco was much less of a power player than his father or, Merlin forbid, his mother. If both their fathers died in the next few years…

Oliver pushed against his chest with the fingertips of his left hand, laying the flat of his palm on Marcus’s sternum. His hand leaked warmth through Flint’s still damp robes. Marcus reached up and grabbed it and held it there as he looked Wood in the eye to answer.

“Politics,” he said shortly and Wood stared at him with narrowed, furious eyes. It felt like the shorter boy was trying to perform legilimency on him. Oliver fisted Flint’s shirt in his hand, trapped under Marcus’s, and jerked him away from the bannister and closer to himself.

“Slytherin rubbish, then,” the brunette said quietly. His hair brushed against Marcus’s cheek as he pulled him closer.

“You tryin’ to start a fight right ‘ere at the tower?” Marcus said, equally quiet. Wood flattened his hand against Flint’s chest again and released his shirt. Marcus tilted his head down just enough to get a good look his rival turned ...acquaintance. Oliver looked back up at him with a slightly wet lower lip and those giant brown eyes. Unfair. He could feel the Scottish boy’s breath on his chin with how close they stood to each other.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Oliver murmured. Marcus could feel the faint imprint of Oliver’s other hand low on his chest towards the tapering of his waist. The cold cloth of his school robes stuck uncomfortably to the back of his neck as Marcus held incredibly still.

A commotion down the hall pushed them apart. Oliver stepped away with a regretful and longing glance back at the taller boy while Flint tried to regain his casual stance against the stair-rail. The youngest Weasley boy and his bushy-haired friend bumbled around the corner whispering furiously between themselves and stopped abruptly when they noticed the two seventh years loitering at the base of the stairs. 

“Flint?” Weasley said loudly. A few portraits shushed him and one begged him to go to bed. “What’re you doin’ skulking around our tower?” The famous Weasley (Prewitt?) temper flushed his cheeks even as Granger wrapped both hands around his upper arm. Marcus gave Oliver a lingering glance from his slightly red cheeks down to those broad hands and then straightened up. Without sparing another look, he brutally bumped shoulders with the thirteen year old and sent him into the wall with the girl squeaking in outrage. They harangued Oliver at least until Flint turned the corner out of sight and hearing. A portrait of two ballerinas on the barre giggled to each other and skipped out of frame. The portrait of a dark African man in a deep red doublet and hat shook his head at him.

“Poor form,” A woman playing croquet tutted. Marcus rolled his eyes and aggressively marched away back to the dungeons with two burning palm prints on his chest and a missed opportunity fizzling in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notice a typo? leave a comment <3


	4. Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw

Marcus threw another sheaf of parchment into the fire from his reclined seat in the Slytherin common room. For weeks he did nothing but mope in the aftermath of his almost affair with Oliver Wood and it started to take a toll on him. Wood avoided his eyes in the hall and at the study group sat at the far end away from Flint, much to everyone’s confusion and Unetta’s pleasure at being separated from Terrence. Wood stole her seat and plonked her directly in front of Marcus (a scary situation usually but he was quite good at divination so she counted her blessings when he allowed her to steal his astrology calendar and tea-leaf chart). 

It didn’t matter. Flint shook his head and peeled another bit of parchment from his book. As a birthday gift last year his cousin Pansy gave him a book of perforated parchment in foot long increments. For all intents and purposes it looked like a normal book but the pages were all blank and ready to be ripped out. With a simple charm (so simple even Marcus could cast it on the first try) the charmed parchment displayed lines measured perfectly for writing and they faded as the author wrote across them. At this point his herbology essay on the benefits and drawbacks of using devil’s snare in defense of one’s home measured in at three pages when he desperately needed at least seven. With a grumble of his own Marcus stuffed his completed pages into his herbology text and slumped back in the chair. 

Most older Slytherins avoided him at this time. They weren’t sure what upset him but knew from experience not to ask. The only exceptions to this rule happened to be the Mulciber brothers (Junior and Kipper), who were incapable of reading a room at the best of times. By happy coincidence they also flocked together despite the large age gap and could frequently be found searching for the elusive entrance to the kitchens and _not_ bothering Flint.

His dour mood and dark aura (that he consciously tried to push out although he couldn’t even _see_ them much less _feel_ them) did little to dissuade the younger snakes, though. For some reason the first and second years got it into their heads that he was just ‘ever so nice, Mister Flint, please could you help us with this?’ and none of his so called friends could be bothered to tell them that he was, actually, pants at most subjects. Astronomy remained the only thing he could help them with, even though first and second year charms came easier to him now than previous years. When they did manage to convince him to help with transfiguration and charms, it was often for theory. Most people seemed to understand that his grasp of the more practical subjects was… lacking.

Valmai Morgan crunched down on the floor in front of him with a copy of Kenilworthy Wisp’s _The Wonder of the Wigtown Wanderers_ , followed swiftly by the much clumsier Orlo Macnair who sat directly on Flint’s left foot. The chaser wiggled his leg until he could shake off the boy and ended up shoving him onto the rug. Orlo took the new position happily and crossed his arms to lay on them while Valmai read her book aloud. 

“Your mum’s with the Harpies?” Flint tried to be a little sociable. He’d buried himself in the corner for too long now.

Valmai looked up and smirked slightly. She resembled Lady Greengrass and the professional quidditch player in question, “My aunt, actually,” she said quietly and kept her eyes on Marcus.

“What position?” he probed as if he didn’t know and resisted the temptation to ball up another bit of parchment for the fire.

“Chaser,” she said with a broad grin now, “Just like me. I’ll be trying out next year, you know.” 

Flint raised an eyebrow and considered asking why she hadn’t this year before he remembered she was only a firstie. He nodded a little and looked back at the fire glumly as she went back to reading to her friend. The Harpies’ lineup occupied his thoughts for the next few minutes as he studiously ignored his friends’ concerned looks coming at him from the settees near the lake-view windows. 

A delicate hand settled on his shoulder and curled around his neck softly. The fingernails were just long enough to graze his skin and painted a pale beige; one finger held the single adornment of a silver ring and an opal inscribed with the foreboding outline of a quintaped. 

Corinthe Vengal pulled on his shoulder until he looked up at her. Her dark, dark red hair curved over her head with the part resting a few scant inches from her opposite ear, shrouding her head in thick hair. Usually she wore it up in the more traditional (if old fashioned) bun style. In a way she resembled his French cousins with her sharp jawline and aristocratic nose, but she stared down at him with her cold, almost black eyes and smiled with her carefully painted lips.

“Hullo, Marcus,” she drawled quietly. Flint looked behind her to his cluster of friends. Adrian shook his head quickly as if to say ‘don’t do it you absolute pillock’. Too bad.

“Corinthe,” He replied and stood up, giving a very short bow that was mostly a nod of his head. He offered his arm on impulse and she smiled in that viper-like way she had about her, then took his arm in both her hands.

“Would you escort me to the seventh floor? I think there’s a very interesting tapestry up there I would just love to show you,” She purred and, even though he was the ‘escort’, she pulled and led him out the door and into the dungeons. Marcus felt eyes on his back all the way out. Corinthe, though she had friends in the upper years, was considered by many to be extremely dangerous. The youngest of three, her oldest brother stood in line to inherit the Lordship and her middle brother went ‘missing’ a few years prior after graduating from Hogwarts as a Hufflepuff. Flint’s mother, and Pucey’s as well at the last tea they’d had together, warned Corinthe could soon be the next Eleonora Zabini. 

As he followed Corinthe up the many flights of stairs to what very well may be either his swift demise or a good snogging, he found he didn’t really care at the moment. He doubted Oliver would either.

Corinthe was not gentle. Marcus reminded himself again and again as he let Adrian heal all the small cuts she left behind--not all from her nails and not all on his back and chest. Pucey didn’t seem too happy about it but at least he didn’t lecture while healing him. The warm tip of his best friend’s wand sealed up another razor thin slice along the inside of his arm, courtesy a sharpened wand-point, and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Why the hell would you go with her?” Terrence asked in the quiet ensuing afterward. He buckled an arm brace on and slid his wand into it. Cassius lay fully uniformed on his bed tossing his beater’s bat up to twirl in the air while Miles rotated his leather keeper’s cap in his hands.

“She’s mad, mate,” Cassius said admiringly, but he always liked things that weren’t good for him, “And right fit, too.” 

Flint shrugged and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He’d have to get dressed quickly at this rate. His interlude with Corinthe bled well into the night and he only showed up in the dorm at five a.m., the earliest non-prefects were allowed in the halls. Catching a few hours of sleep and a shower, waiting for Adrian to wake up, and then getting healed by the other boy took up the four hours between arriving at the dorm and the game. He snapped his arm guards on and pulled on his jersey and quidditch pants. His quidditch boots had knee guards attached to them so he wouldn’t need the kneepads some of the other chasers chose to wear. The others stood and Miles threw him an extra pair of goggles, though they probably wouldn’t need them with the weather today.

Children littered the Slytherin common room like they did every morning of a match. The Slytherins’ habit was to arrive as a House to the great hall and Marcus was a little embarrassed to say he was the only hold up today. The first years, bundled up for the wind and slight chill of the stands, hustled to Carys’s orders as she pushed them properly in line. Little Celeste Pyrite, with her dark hair pulled back in a puffy bun, held hands with Simon Griffiths and Marcus, not for the first time, wondered how such a sweet little kid got into the house of snakes. Hopkirk, Nibbs, Meliflua, MacDougal, Yaxley, Travers, and the youngest Greengrass filled out the second years and finally the recalcitrant third years hopped in with pouty looks--the worst on his little cousin Pansy’s face as she separated from the Malfoy prat.

Juniper Elwhistle in the fourth years turned around and winked audaciously at Marcus. He turned away politely and snarled at Bletchley to get in line when he commented on the captain’s bright red ears. Coriolanus Gage, a fifth year, got smacked on the back of the head by Carys when he tried to sneak into the sixth form lineup and then reprimanded again when she noticed his sloppily done scarf. By the time she made it back to the Quidditch team at the rear, everyone from the smallest first year to the oldest seventh year looked ready for an inspection by the Minister himself. Carys flicked her wand at Marcus and his hair neatened itself while his jersey lost a few wrinkles. He nodded at her in thanks and they headed out.

Corinthe, her hair done up in her typical tight bun, turned around and gave him a lascivious wink. Marcus tried to ignore it and remembered instead how hard her fingernails dug into his arms and how sharp the point of her wand felt against the sensitive skin of his neck. Pucey nudged him forward again.

The great hall already bustled with excitement. Ravenclaw’s team headed the table and nodded politely to the Slytherins as they entered, but that would be the height of friendly reactions today for most of the house. With Ravenclaw opposing, Slytherin would be cheering alone from their stands and fielding a wealth of boos from the other houses. The Slytherins took their seats along the table and Marcus looked up to the professors’ dais. Snape nodded approvingly at them and Marcus patted Carys on the shoulder as he stepped next to her to take his own seat. 

The Gryffindors shouted up and down their table and filled the hall with inappropriate screeches and drama for this time in the morning. Flint looked over, glad he took a seat facing them, and immediately caught Wood’s eye. He looked back down and grabbed a few slices of toast and a cup of tea. He never ate heavy on game days. The bottom of his teacup, though he tried not to look, beckoned him and revealed the straight, bulky club. That didn’t bode well. He covertly peaked at Miles’ cup to see a curled and twisted image of a knot and reached over to knock his fist against the other’s temple lightly and pointed down at the keeper’s untouched food. Bletchley smiled thinly and started to eat.

Before long the headmaster stood and several of the teachers peeled off into side doors to monitor the trek down to the pitch. Snape, following Professor Synestra, left through the large doors at the front of the hall with one last stern look at his house. Carys stood and gave Miles a quick kiss with a whispered, “Good luck!” before she headed down to the lower years. Miles perked right up, the git. Malfoy looked like he swallowed a lemon as Cassius tried to force feed him one last bite of porridge. The team stood up and Flint went to the front, making a straight-shot to the doors without looking to see if they would follow. They always did.

Straight to the locker room for pre-game warm up stretches, grab the brooms, consider giving a pep talk, decide not to. The routine came from the captain before Flint--a girl named Vaisey. Nearly as tall as Marcus and just as brutal on the pitch. She preferred beater and didn’t approve of talking at all during practice or games--all hand signals. 

Everyone gathered around doing arm stretches and fixing the occasional bristle on their brooms while Marcus stewed at the front. The tiny chalk players on the play-board zoomed around in formation mimicking drills until he waved them away. For once he decided to say something.

“Got to win this one,” Everyone looked up in surprise, “With Malfoy’s stunt at the beginning of the year and weaseling out of the first match, we’ve got somethin’ to prove.” Malfoy flushed and looked away but nobody argued because they knew it to be true. Although Lucius strong armed Flint into putting Malfoy on first string while Terrence studied for NEWTs and warmed the bench in the reserves alongside Urquhart and a few other fifth years, a loss right now wouldn’t do anyone any favors and would actually lose the house a lot of rep, especially with the new brooms. 

As far as pep talks it couldn’t begin to compare to what Marcus knew Oliver delivered to his Gryffindors. It just wasn’t in Flint’s nature; he didn’t talk a lot in the first place and even though he loved quidditch, and was actually good at it, he didn’t see the point in shouting just before a match when most everyone preferred their own rituals. 

The horns started playing outside and Flint ushered to the door flanked by Miles the keeper instead of Malfoy the seeker. The other two chasers and the two beaters followed behind with Draco taking up the back as the youngest and shortest player. Upon exiting the locker room they all mounted their brooms and took to the air. Marcus headed to the center circle and dismounted to greet Davies and the Madam.

Marcus stretched out his hand and shook Roger’s. The Ravenclaw gave a small smile and Flint nodded back stiffly. Roger was an alright bloke if a bit too bookish. Hooch gave her usual pre-game spiel and urged everyone into the air before blowing her whistle and tossing the quaffle high. It was immediately scooped up by one of the Ravens and the game began.

Derrick and Warrington battered the bludgers using a combination of the backbeat and dopplebeater like they practiced. Though difficult to master it was excellent for confusing the opposing team and the latter could really do some damage if it made contact. The Ravens caught on after a few near misses and one of their beaters made the first foul of the game by blatching straight into Cassius. It did more damage to the blue-cloak than Warrington. Flint took the penalty and it effortlessly sank through the lower ring, much to the keeper’s embarrassment as she’d just doubled back through her figure eight defense and narrowly missed it. 

The game continued in this line but remained extremely close. Slytherin would gain the upperhand for a few plays and then rapidly lose ground to the Ravens, at one point necessitating a bumphing foul towards the Hufflepuffs just to save a goal. The small Ravenclaw girl they chose to shoot the penalty shot missed and the quaffle dinged off the lower edge of the middle hoop, then plummeted into Hooch’s waiting hands. 

The seekers, hovering above the pitch Marcus noticed, were doing fuck all. Malfoy looked to be taunting Cho if the Asian girl’s furious look was anything to judge by. Davies called a time out to regroup and Flint spent the entire two minute break alternately haranguing the blonde into actually doing his job of _seeking_ and pushing the other beaters into more aggressive playing--hopefully without any poorly planned fouls. 

The game continued on at the same brutal pace and the same gridlock. Marcus knew they’d have to rely on Malfoy catching the snitch before Chang. The overcast sky began to whip a little as the game bled into the second hour. Bletchley blocked a few consecutive shots from the Ravenclaw chasers and Pucey got two in through judicious use of the Porksoff Ploy alongside first Marcus and then Bole. They lead by just one score now. 

Marcus heard the smack of the beater’s bat and just as the green chasers lined up in the arrowhead his head exploded with pain. He rolled into a sloth grip, though it was already too late to dodge, and his legs came undone. Only through more than a decade of quidditch drills did he manage to hold onto his broom. He hung there, ears ringing and few other sounds leaking through, for a handful of moments before hauling himself back up into the upright position. Pucey flanked him on one side and Bole the other, both urging him to call a timeout. He shook his head, disbursing the stars, and shoved them off.

“Formation!” he shouted and could finally hear himself. A cut on his forehead slowly bled onto the collar of his uniform. Pucey looked horrified and Marcus just barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He’d been hit worse before.

They formed the arrowhead and the imposing play combined with Marcus’s terrifying visage earned them another goal. On their loop back to the center Marcus rolled up to Derrick and snatched the bat, smacking it with brute force and deadly precision at one of Ravenclaw’s beaters. Millard took it full on in the stomach and dropped his bat. It landed in the sand forty meters below and Marcus tossed his own bat back to Peregrine. The beater nodded with wide eyes and flew back to be parallel with Warrington again.

A raging headache now beat against every part of his skull. Marcus knew this game needed to end sooner rather than later. Everyone started to look tired except the seekers who still lollygagged high above the pitch. Malfoy, at least, after the last time out had started roaming around the edges and towards the tops of the flags. Marcus shook his head again to clear some cobwebs and flew straight at Eliza Goshawk, Unetta's younger sister. He went for a Transylvanian Tackle and she screamed when his fist barely missed her nose but thankfully dropped the quaffle straight into Bole’s waiting hands. The sixth year flew towards the goalposts and threw the ball backwards to Flint, who rolled into the catch and spun upside down again and back into a corkscrew up past the Ravenclaw keeper. He fired it down and it swooped through the hoop. Lee Jordan’s voice rang around the pitch but Flint couldn’t make it out. 

Finally excited shouting drew his attention and with little fanfare Malfoy fisted the bright gold ball in the air and waved with both arms at Madam Hooch, who called the match immediately in Slytherin’s favor. The team met on the ground and Flint ruffled Malfoy’s windswept hair even while everyone urged him to head to the infirmary straight away. Draco did look very pleased after his congratulations though.

Snape rushed onto the field and up to Flint, twisting a bit of hair out of his face and squinting in the late midday sun. He frowned and then snarled at Pucey.

“Are you a healer’s apprentice or not?” the dour man hissed menacingly, “Take him to the hospital wing straight away.” Adrian nodded like a chicken and, with Warrington’s help, hustled Flint off the field. Madame Pomfrey always had at least one bed ready on quidditch days and one practically reserved for Harry Potter and Marcus Flint each.

His friends bustled him into the matron’s ward and she took one look at him before shooing the other boys out. He took his spot on the far bed and hid behind a plant from the sunlight trickling in. Pomfrey flicked her wand and the glass seemed to grow darker, dimming the room quite a bit. She urged him to lay back on the bed and set about vanishing all the blood, tutted at the bludger sized bruise on his temple, and ordered him to get out of his uniform over-cloak while she muttered away. 

The mediwitch disappeared for a few minutes while he struggled out of his arm bracers and boots and cloak. When he finally finished pulling off the bulky equipment he was exhausted and his headache banged like a drum at a troll’s harvest festival. She returned with a headache relief potion (which he downed immediately), some skellegro for any skull injuries, another, much more disgusting and chunkier potion for concussion relief.

“You’ll need three doses of this one,” she said, tapping her fingernail against the light red glass. He furrowed his brow and tried to convey enough confusion that she would explain.

“One today and one tomorrow and the next day,” she elaborated, “I’ve excused you from classes on Monday but I’ll expect to see you here so I can check on you.” Marcus didn’t want to rock the boat--she was actually going to let him leave on the same day he got injured!

“I’ve fire-called your mother, of course, and notified her. She says she wants you to mirror her as soon as possible but I assured her you weren’t so terribly injured as to stay the night and she seemed very pleased when I told her you won, dear,” Marcus nodded his head and frowned at the ache behind his eyes. The headache potion took a few minutes to kick in. 

Pomfrey puttered about around him for a few minutes and Snape stopped by with terse congratulations topped by an order to go to bed in a timely fashion--Along with the notification that the party had been postponed until tomorrow evening just after dinner, not that he knew over much about that, mind you. Pomfrey, jumping on that, encouraged him to spend at least one night in the hospital wing ‘just to make sure’ and Marcus, still a little addled from the closeup with the bludger, agreed groggily. She allowed his friends to share dinner with him and the team hopped up on the beds surrounding him with varying degrees of glee. The first game of the season usually won a better reaction but this one took so long and was so stressful everyone just seemed happy it was done. 

Rhiannon and Carys stopped by, much to Miles’s delight, and babied him appropriately. Rhiannon handed over his mirror, apparently having rushed down at the behest of Snape in the halls, and he tucked it away for later. Didimus Gibbon bumbled in with a large scratch down his palm and seemed absolutely befuddled at the sight of most of the upper-years clustered in the infirmary. He apparently spent the entire morning hunched over in the library for a transfiguration essay and completely forgot about the game, then injured himself messing about with a rusty suit of armor..

Malfoy’s goons came by to congratulate and gather him up and as the rowdy third years exited Bole and Derrick both decided to beat it as well. They assured Marcus they’d have the necessary butterbeer for the party tomorrow and stole his apple off his plate before leaving.

The Slytherins chit-chatted for a little while, busying themselves with a game of snap--the non-exploding variety for Flint’s benefit--until the seventh year girls knocked on the door. Tempestia, Sophia, and Corinthe floated in and spread around the group. The redhead, much to Marcus’s dismay, scratched long nails through his short hair and along his scalp in a slightly painful fashion. Adrian and Terrence eyed him while Blishwick and Tripe noticeably held in a few not-so-pleasant remarks. 

Corinthe eventually left with her entourage. Sophia gave an apologetic look over her shoulder and assured everyone she would help Bole with preparations for tomorrow’s party. 

“Why in the world did you sleep with her, Marc?” Carys whined, “She’s absolutely _awful!_ ” Miles nodded dutifully.

“I don’t know about awful, but she’s certainly not good for you,” Rhiannon said disapprovingly. She ran her hands over a few vials stored on his nightstand and almost dropped one.

Marcus shrugged one shoulder and leaned back on his bed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Adrian rolled his eyes, “It’s because he’s all put out about _something_ and he won’t tell us what.”

The other boys agreed quickly, even in the face of Marcus’s one eyed disapproval as he squinted up at them. The argument ensued over his head, and amidst his slight protestations, about what he could be so irritated about that he would willingly mess around with Corinthe--arguably their generation’s Bellatrix Lestrange in measuring crazy. Marcus groaned and hid under his pillow when they started placing bets on when she would murder him.

All this was interrupted by a light knocking on the doorframe. As one everybody looked up and Marcus removed his pillow from his face. Oliver Wood stood blushing in the doorway, his face set in a resolute frown. The girls slowly rotated around to stare at Marcus’s own unflinching face and Rhiannon let out a squeak before ushering everyone towards the door.

“It’s almost curfew!” She said and Carys helped herd the boys out the door, “We’ll see you tomorrow, Marcus!” And his friends disappeared. 

Oliver held the door awkwardly for the stampede of Slytherins and when they disappeared around the corner he let it fall shut quietly. The keeper rubbed the back of his neck and stood still, looking anywhere but at Marcus.

Finally, Flint huffed, “Out with it then,” he said gruffly and tried to look dignified while reclining on a mountain of pillows. Wood sighed and took a few steps closer until he could sit on the bed next to Marcus’s legs. It was the closest they’d come since Gryffindor’s own game three weeks prior. 

Oliver was quiet for an unbearable amount of time. Marcus, almost asleep in the bed, startled awake when the shorter boy placed his palm on the chaser’s knee. The heat seeped in through his quidditch pants and sank into his skin, much gentler than Corinthe had any idea how to be. 

“‘M sorry I’ve been avoiding you,” Oliver said quietly. Marcus held himself very still. “I didn’t really know what to think of… that.” 

Oliver squeezed Marcus's knee and then let go suddenly, then scooted slightly down the bed. He looked upset but also determined. Marcus felt a foreboding twinge in his gut but didn't think to brace himself. 

“We can't be... An ‘us’” Oliver said with obvious regret. Marcus pulled back further into the pillows. Nothing he didn't expect, but it still hurt. He couldn't bring himself to say anything back.

“It's not that I don't want to,” Oliver said in a rush, “It's just that... We're very different, you and I. And I don't think anyone would understand.” Marcus didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought and he said as much.

“Who cares what any o’ those tossers out there think about it?” He said in the quietest tone he could muster. Oliver shook his head and lowered it into his hands. He looked as miserable as Marcus’d ever seen him.

“You should care a lot more than me,” Oliver started and stood. Marcus reached out and his fingers scraped Wood’s wrist just barely before the other boy pulled further away. 

“Well I don’t,” Marcus said, beginning to panic, “When have you ever known me to give a shit about anyone else?”

Oliver shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. Marcus felt frozen in his bed, his sweaty quidditch gear felt clammy and cold.

“Me, then,” the keeper flung his hands in the air, whispering furiously to avoid the wrath of Madame Pomfrey, “ _I_ care. _I_ care about what everyone will say to me about dating _you_ ,” although Oliver looked pained just saying those hurtful words Marcus felt the world tilt on its axis again. His concussion must be acting up, “Do you know how much shit I’ll get for dating not just a _Slytherin_ ,” he continued in the face of Marcus’s silence, “but you specifically? We’ve hated each other for years--”

“Never hated you,” Flint’s voice sounded strange to himself, like he was under water or far away or had a cold. Oliver stopped and dragged his hands down his face then stood to take a few staggering steps toward the door. 

“You’ve hated Gryffindor for years and they hate right back, you know,” Wood finished, “Not to mention your family, your father especially, and everything with You-Know-Who coming out recently,” Oliver spoke quickly and took a few more steps. Marcus stared after him and willed his expression into practiced indifference usually reserved for dinner parties and meetings with his father. He couldn’t even think properly.

“You don’t know fuck all about my family,” he grated out, “and I never took you for a cowardly lion.”

Oliver reeled back, his face pale, and let out a gusting sigh that shook his entire body, “In this case… I think I have to be.” He turned towards the door with a noticeable hunch to his shoulders and squeezed himself out through the barest opening.

For a long time Marcus sat there staring at the heavy oak doors willing them to open up and for anyone to come through. His mother, to visit him in the hospital wing, for one. His friends so he could pretend nothing bothered him and they could pull it out anyway. Oliver… to take back everything and offer something else. The doors stayed shut and Marcus tentatively reached for the Flint family mirror on the side table and ran his fingertips over the silver filigree on the sides.

“Mother,” he called into it quietly some time later. Her silvery eyes peered at him from the shimmering depths of the mirror.

“ _Mon coeur,”_ she said softly and smiled at him. Something inside him released a bit at the sheer familiarity and comfort just seeing her brought him. Araminta Flint looked over her son for a few moments and frowned.

“What ‘as ‘appened to you, my love?” She asked, worry clear in her tone. Her fingers appeared on the glass and he knew she had reached out to touch his image. 

Choking a little and briefly hoping nobody could hear in the empty hall, including the Madame who should’ve been in bed or close to by then, Marcus squeezed his eyes shut and forced words through his stiff throat, “I think I’m stupider than even Father ever thought…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is an alternate ending to this chapter that i will post at the end of the regular story as an extra scene. it ends happy
> 
> ALSO this is corinthe as i pictured her
> 
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/30/08/34/3008349fedc50b218631d641d7f209e0.jpg
> 
> AND chapter 5 will be a hot minute. like an extra day. bc its not done and i have a paper due tomorrow as well so i am #great at this.


	5. Winter Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus goes with Corinthe, Marcus goes on holiday, Marcus has a talk with Oliver.

The next few weeks leading up to Winter break, Marcus refused to be ashamed of himself. He loitered around with his friends when possible and still attended Hooch’s first year flying lessons every Tuesday. He slept in on days he didn’t have any morning classes and rarely attended either breakfast or lunch. His friends knew something happened with Oliver because of his presence in the hospital wing, but nobody could get anything out of him. Embarrassingly enough, the only place he felt like his old, irrational and irritated self was the pitch. Practice became the only time he spoke to anyone not in his immediate friend-group. He didn’t talk to the professors (not that they often called on him anyway, but Trelawney did seem put out about it. She read his fortune and for once claimed to see an angel in his teacup (happiness). All Marcus saw was a bat (fruitless endeavors). 

Adrian attached himself to Marcus’s side and Terrence often tagged along. They both made a silent agreement (not including Marcus apparently) that they wouldn’t go to the study group any more. Flint found himself reluctantly grateful. 

Oliver, and all the seventh year Gryffindors actually, avoided him like the plague. He spent arithmancy with Pucey and, surprisingly, Unetta and avoided Percy Weasley’s eyes throughout runes and astronomy. Wood fought with Sprout loudly about switching partners while Adrian stared at Marcus with horrible sympathy. They separated into groups of two the following week. Wood only had to withstand his presence for two class periods before he paired up with Weasley. Marcus tried to concentrate on his mushrooms. Pucey outlined their next essay for him almost line by line. 

Corinthe, encouraged by his outright silence, frequently accosted him when he split away from his friends for a moment. He found himself spending evenings with her unenthusiastically and then refusing to allow Adrian to fix the many scratches and cuts she littered over him. The sex wasn’t bad, per se… she just had no concept of gentle. And since when did Marcus Flint want gentle? Increasingly he spent more time alone with the venomous girl and allowed her to hurt him, both physically and with her notorious temper and sharp tongue, although Adrian and Terrence often interrupted and sometimes managed to catch him before she completely sequestered him away. Those two adapted quite well to babysitting their depressed friend and sometimes even managed to corral him with Rhiannon and Carys who remained infinitely patient with his non-answers and silent communication. To Marcus, it was clear the boys hoped he would at least speak to them about his problems but he honestly couldn’t verbalize just how much Oliver’s actions and words hurt him without wanting to toss himself off the astronomy tower. It didn’t help that they didn’t know the half of his and Wood’s mutual attraction and the hope Flint harbored for a relationship before Oliver completely destroyed it.

A letter arrived from his mother three days before their release into the holiday. Her typical purple calligraphy slapped down on the table from the mouth of her preferred owl--an elf owl she called Beatrice. Marcus opened it with slowly mounting dread as his friends nonchalantly stared at him. The French seemed rushed and the letter not as long as usual, only two sheets of parchment instead of the usual five. 

Rhiannon plucked it out of his hands after he’d read it and focused hard on the foreign language. He didn’t bother to get it back. She read slowly and then handed it back with an emphatic, “What the hell does that say?”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, “Thought you spoke French?” he said dryly. Everyone quieted down to pay attention and he rolled his eyes. Even before his and Oliver’s ‘break up’ he’d never been one to talk too much.

Blishwick pouted and pushed her hair out of her eyes, “I _speak_ it fine,” she said, “Reading is another matter.” 

Marcus hummed and tucked the letter back in his bag. He’d put it in his trunk back in the dorm. Everyone looked at him expectantly. Then Cassius threw a roll at his head. Despite his self-enforced melancholy Marcus couldn’t hold back a small grin when the others laughed. 

“She wants to spend the holiday in Brumeux,” he said shortly, referencing his Great Uncle’s place where he attended primary. The wizarding community in Brittany was only slightly larger than Hogsmeade but had the added benefit of being on the seaside, hence the name ‘misty’. 

“Oh that’ll be lovely,” Carys said and unsubtly poked Miles in the side. He yelped and rubbed at it, mumbling about a bruise. She rolled her eyes, “ _We_ will be trying to separate our parents to keep them from killing each other.” The Tripe and Bletchley families didn’t ... _hate_ each other, but Miles’ mother and Carys’ father broke up extremely publicly a short while after graduating and the lingering humiliation and anger made for exciting dinners. Flint never turned down an invitation to either family’s parties. 

He hummed in return and conversation petered out. Marcus took the opportunity to look around the hall, catching a few lower years’ eyes on his own table. Celeste Pyrite and Simon Griffiths both flushed, their already dark skin turning even darker, and looked back at their porridge. Valmai Morgan smiled and twirled her hair while Orlo Macnair gawped unattractively. Flint shuddered, mostly at Valmai’s little crush on him, and turned back to the rest of the hall. The Gryffs were causing a ruckus again but the ‘puffs and ‘claws looked suitably morose--the third game of the season would take place this Saturday between the two houses. For Hufflepuff it would be a redemption story after Potter’s fall off his broom, but for Ravenclaw it would be their second game in a row and nobody wanted a double loss.

Roving his eyes up one more time, a fetching pair of light brown ones stared at him from under bushy eyebrows. Oliver Wood made mooncow eyes at him from across the hall with a pout on his lips. It just wasn’t fair that he was allowed to kiss Flint, ignore him, then tell him to bugger off and still do that. Despite the last few days of numbness, Marcus felt the familiar stirrings of anger darkening his cheeks. Mulciber, the elder, moved subtly away from him and started a conversation with Victoria Tremblay on the bench next to him. The Carrow twins grabbed Fiona Quinn and hustled her out the hall while she tried to quickly stuff the rest of her muffin in her mouth. 

Wood’s mouth turned down in a confused frown and how _dare_ he! Marcus snarled and stood up, glad this morning promised divination. He could skip the afternoon’s Herbology course if he still felt the horrid bubbling in his stomach. Adrian, the cad, gathered his things with a sigh and made to follow as Marcus stomped out.

“You know,” the shorter boy said as he caught up, “If you’d tell us what the hell happened we might be able to help.” He pointedly didn’t mention all the subtle and not-so-subtle probes the other Slytherin’s had sent his way recently. 

Marcus continued forward with purpose, clearing a group of third year Ravenclaws from outside the hall by stepping directly through the center of their cluster. The ensuing squeals made a thin smile come to his lips. 

“Nothin’ to talk about,” he said quietly, “Wood’s a prick. Father’s a prick. Everyone’s a prick.” 

Pucey sighed again and hiked his bag higher on his shoulder. They didn’t talk the rest of the way to divination and Marcus went first up the ladder. Luckily, Trelawney usually left her room open. The incense wasn’t even lit yet. As Adrian took his seat Marcus threw his things down and started hiding a few candles behind the rows of crystal balls and stuffing incense sticks into a decorative flower vase. They pinged on the bottom, the tips hidden from sight, and he set it down on the uppermost shelf of the teacups behind a stack of chipped saucers. 

Adrian already had his calendar out. He kept complaining to Marcus that his horoscopes all sounded similar, but Flint had to tell him that that was actually the norm. They both chose to do full year horoscopes for their signs, Aquarius and Aries respectively, and while Marcus actually finished first for once Pucey found himself struggling to ‘foresee’ the latter part of 1994. 

Marcus threw himself into his chair and unclipped his robe. It fell on the back of the chair and he rested his head on his arms to wait out the last few minutes before the first period. Oliver’s face haunted his thoughts. Why did he look confused? Why couldn’t he just leave Marcus to his sulking and brooding like a normal person? Why did Marcus give a shit? Oliver made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with a Slytherin, much less a Flint. With a groan at his inability to parse out the nature of other teenage boys, Marcus pulled out his sheef of footlong parchments to doodle potential quidditch plays. He spared a fleeting thought reminding himself to ask his cousin Pansy for another bound book of the valuable parchment measurements for Yule and then bent over it. 

Trelawney floated in on gossamer wings, her robes flowing behind her. The pale pink material glimmered with rhinestones in tiny sunbursts. She muttered to herself and flicked her wand. A teapot began bubbling near the professor’s desk; the drapes flung themselves open; and a handful of incense that Marcus missed flew out from underneath a pile of star charts to light themselves. There was considerably less smoke than usual, but the absent-minded professor didn’t seem to notice. Trelawney prepared enough tea for the seventh year class and mumbled some more, spinning around to an empty chair as if to say ‘gotcha!’ before rubbing her head in confusion. Pucey shook his head in amazement while Flint studied his plays. 

Warrington slumped in alongside Sophia and took the table next to the other Slytherins. The small group of Hufflepuffs tried to crowd together at one table but found four just too outrageous a number so they eventually split into two tables. The last classmates, Alicia and Angelina, practically fell into the room from the trapdoor and heaved themselves the last few inches inside just as the clock began chiming. They lay there panting for a few moments as everyone gathered their things and Angelina shooed someone away at the bottom of the ladder before slamming the trapdoor.

Trelawney stood at the head of the room staring into space for the first ten minutes of class, but this was not unusual. Most of the students kept working on their horoscopes and Marcus set aside his quidditch things to look at his tarot deck. It killed him that they were required to illustrate the cards themselves and he painstakingly tried to trace out of a book from the Flint family library he convinced his mother to mail him. The results were slow going. 

Finally Trelawney snapped out of whatever trance she’d placed herself in and began dolling out cups. Marcus thought she must’ve finally gone round the bend because he hadn’t done a tea-reading in class since late in fifth year--it was just so simple. She mumbled little things to everyone, no doubt doomsaying, and poured tea up to the brim in each cup. Marcus and Adrian received theirs last.

Pucey looked increasingly nervous as she turned to him, “Beware of charlatan’s deals,” she muttered. Adrian, if possible, looked more incredulous than usual as she turned to his table mate. 

“Bad luck,” Trelawney whispered to Marcus. She sounded more serious now when she didn’t shout her predictions, “This holiday will not be kind to you, Mr. Flint,” she said in her foreboding way. Adrian frowned worriedly and Marcus just nodded--he already figured that. Regardless of his mother’s wishes, they couldn’t hide in France for the entire break.

“Thank you for the warning, ma’am,” he said politely. Trelawney’s visions were viewed by many as complete hogwash, but Marcus’s LeFrancois lineage taught him even the small things were valuable in the end. A carnival-esque warning could be all you get someday to avoid a true calamity.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur as they read their tea leaves and Marcus, again, tried to ignore the mixed messages in his tea leaves. Adrian, put off by his minor fortune telling by Trelawney, begged him to interpret his leaves for him. 

“It’s either ants or birds,” Marcus said at length, “Probably both, knowing you.” 

Adrian fretted, tossing his things in his bag as the clock neared the end of the hour, “What do those mean, though?” 

Marcus shrugged and packed his own things away, “If it’s ants: nothing good,” Adrian whimpered pathetically, “If it’s birds: something good.” Pucey moaned in dismay as the professor walked by and she tutted at the tea-dregs.

“Horrid message, really dear, my apologies and good luck!” She said loudly and then ushered them all out when the clock began bonging. 

At the bottom of the trapdoor stood a recalcitrant Percy Weasley flanked by Oliver Wood. The other Gryffindors groaned and began talking even before they hit the bottom of the ladder, leaving the other students little room to maneuver around them. Marcus ignored the entire group and bulldozed his way past. He could feel Pucey hanging onto the back of his robes to use him as a battering ram and just knew they were forming a Slytherin conga line behind him. Wood and Weasley, crushed against the wall by the girl Gryffs and crowd of rushing seventh years and incoming fourth years, couldn’t get near them. Finally the snakes freed themselves from the chaos and Sophia urged Marcus forward with a hand in the center of his back that he tried to ignore. Pucey and Warrington followed them, casting warning looks over their shoulders that Flint tried to ignore. 

He skipped herbology. 

* * *

The Slytherin compartment on the Hogwarts Express practically bulged at the seams. The entire quidditch team (minus Malfoy and Lucian Bole, who both elected to stay behind at school) packed inside and with Rhiannon and Carys as well it felt properly crammed. Although he preferred the window seat, Marcus’s friends crammed him in the center of the bench and he couldn’t be bothered to fight them. 

For the first leg of the journey they all compared winter marks. Pucey and Rhiannon both seemed overly concerned over their marks, but everyone else followed Marcus’s lead and at least pretended not to care. Mostly Flint remained quiet, as usual, and only joined in the conversation when somebody pushed for it. At one point Corinthe, Tempestia, and Sophia stopped by and the redhead tried to finesse him out of the compartment while her ‘friends’ gave apologetic looks to everyone else. With the iron band of Rhiannon’s hand around his wrist, Marcus politely declined Vengal’s advances--much to everyone’s relief. 

His mother met him on the platform. With her hair gathered at the top of her head and dressed in casual (expensive, but casual) robes, her fragility more apparent than usual. He approached her slowly after bidding his friends a happy Yule and goodbye and she welcomed him with a gentle hand on his cheek. Araminta Flint’s skin looked pale and papery thin, slightly wrinkled near her neck and the backs of her hands, but she was wholly and utterly comforting in her familiarity.

She took a moment to greet him, sweeping her thumb over his cheekbone, “ _Mon soleil_ ,” she said in quiet, quick French, “ _I am so pleased to see you again.”_

Flushing lightly, Marcus greeted her back, “Mother,” and averted his eyes. She laughed and shrank his things for him, good because he was prepared to just lug the trunk home in order to avoid (failing at) performing charms in public. He could feel eyes on the back of his neck and turned to look over his shoulder. Oliver, being hugged by his mother and having his hair ruffled by his father, looked at him with those same mooncow eyes. Marcus turned around to ignore him and faced his mother’s expectant look.

“ _Friend of yours?_ ” she asked with a jab at his side. Her fingers felt long and bony (unlike his, which were long but thick like his father’s). Marcus shook his head and offered his arm for her to take. She shook her head and laughed once more but allowed him to lead her to the communal floo to avoid the muggles. She went first and he stepped in after her. Before the green fire took him he got one last view of Wood’s miserable face and a few last minute waves from friends. 

Flint manor felt just as drafty as always. Marcus stepped out into the parlor--done up in light blues and whites for the season. The entire living space was decorated for Yule with various pine needle sculptures, wreaths, candles, and small ornamental tokens hanging around with symbols from arithmancy and ancient runes. It felt like home. Then his father entered the room.

Atticus Flint stood at a towering height, slightly taller than Marcus himself. At just over two meters tall, the Flint men loomed over most of their contemporaries. Atticus had deep, almost black, brown eyes inherited from a Black relative sometime in the last 300 years and straight white hair streaked with black that he kept close to his scalp. He held himself rigidly upright with square shoulders that tapered into a deceptively narrow waist--the build Marcus also inherited. They also shared the same clean cut jawline and high forehead, not to mention the tendency for mismatching and misaligned teeth before puberty. In comparison to her husband, Araminta looked absolutely dainty with her diminutive height, coming barely to Atticus’s shoulder with her hair done up. Her blonde and grey hair lay above silver eyes and a straight, aristocratic nose she shared with her son. 

Atticus stepped forward and offered his hand to Marcus, so the boy took it. His father pulled him in tightly by the hand and laid the other on the nape of his neck with a light squeeze. He seemed to be in a good mood. Araminta watched her husband closely with steely eyes

“My son, happy Yule,” Atticus said, releasing him. Marcus nodded and bent slightly to do a polite greeting to one's lord.

“Father, happy Yule,” he intoned back. Atticus looked relatively pleased for a few moments before stepping away.

“School is going well.” He stated, turning his back to Marcus. It wasn’t a question, it was more like a threat. Marcus performed admirably with a look at his mother.

“I feel confident in passing the end of year tests,” he lied with the confidence he didn’t feel. 

“Good, good,” Atticus replied. He ran his hand through his short hair and then whipped out his wand to check the time, hustling out of the room without so much as a goodbye. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief echoed by his mother.

“He had _tea_ today,” Araminta said conspiratorially. It wasn’t a secret in the Flint household that the patriarch’s tea was often laced with either alcohol or a mood stabilizing potion like a calming draught. Atticus grew more and more erratic with each passing year, in no small part due to his impressive age, and sometimes dosed himself with his cure-all of bourbon and various draughts--but sometimes Araminta did it for him on special occasions… like their son coming home for winter holidays. 

“When do we leave, _Maman_?” Marcus quickly spurred the conversation forward and checked to see if his trunk still rested in his pocket. Araminta looked at him, amused. 

“In the morning, _mon coeur_ ,” she said and started towards the door, “You must at least have dinner with your fa-zher, you know. You won’t see him until just after the muggle holiday.”

Marcus stiffened and looked at her, “We’re coming back that early?” That gave him nearly a full week of Atticus’s full attention as he’d be on break from the Wizengamot duties at the same time.

Araminta nodded and moved towards the door, “‘e ‘as agreed to only do dueling practice four times, in exchange for you working on your healing again,” Truly, that was actually a miracle. Often the oldest Flint pushed for two a day, leaving Marcus exhausted from dusk to dawn. If this was his mother’s holiday present to him he wouldn’t sniff his nose at it. 

* * *

Flint searched up and down the train for an empty compartment, his trunk packed in his pocket. Usually he’d go and find his friends but he just wanted to be alone for now and hopefully dodge Corinthe as well. The first three entire cars were packed full of the shortest first years he’d ever seen, including a bunch of Hufflepuffs that insisted on talking to ‘Mr. Flint’ in front of some terrified Gryffindors and thanking him for all his help that semester in Madam Hooch’s class.

He ducked around the door to one of the older Slytherin compartments and then pushed his way to rush through the next four cars until finally, near the back of the train, he found an empty compartment. Especially enticing: the two on either side of it were also empty, meaning nobody would be coming this way. He flung the door open and threw himself down, arching away from the seat immediately and groaning loudly. Huffing, Marcus cast a locking charm (three times to work, Merlin fucking forgive him) at the door, shut the blinds on the glass, and rested his arm on the window sill to avoid leaning back. The train roved over outer London and then into the countryside properly before he allowed himself to cross his arms on the sill and lay his head down. He was asleep within minutes.

\--Only to be woken what seemed like immediately by a loud bang at the door. 

Oliver Wood shoved the door open with a scowl, kicking it the last few inches into the slot so he could squeeze in. Without looking at Marcus he started complaining, “Honestly, I try to find you to talk to you and you hide in the absolutely stupidest part of the train and lock the door with the only bloody charm I have trouble with and I find you _sleeping_?” He looked up and furrowed his brow at Marcus.

Flint looked like he hadn’t slept a wink since the holiday began. Underneath his eyes were light grey circles that made his already pale skin look bruised and because Oliver woke him up he looked incredibly sleepy--which made it harder to be mad at him, actually, because his ruffled hair and squinted eyes were actually quite cute.

“Wot the fuck d’you want?” Marcus bit out and tried to sit up straight. He bit back a hiss and stood instead, towering nearly a full head over Wood. The keeper pursed his lips and looked away for a moment. His hair looked windswept and Marcus spared a moment’s thought thinking about their almost kiss by Gryffindor tower. It felt so far away now. 

Oliver leaned out the door and looked around, then pulled on the metal and glass divider with all his might until it slammed shut with a clang. Marcus looked at him as if he’d gone insane. Oliver felt that way. He turned to face Marcus fully and prepared himself with a deep breath. 

“I don’t want to be jerked around anymore, you know,” Flint said dully, clearly exhausted with the conversation that hadn’t even gone down yet.

Oliver puffed up indignantly, “I’m not-- I would never do that, you prick!” He said and poked Marcus in the chest. Flint stepped back with a wince and Oliver’s face collapsed in concern, “Oi, you alright there, mate?”

“Not your mate,” the chaser said and tried to scoot around the shorter boy. Oliver, frustrated, reached out and grabbed a fistful of the back of Marcus’s robe to jerk him back. Marcus recoiled instinctively--he never did get any better at healing. Oliver dropped his robe like it burned him and pressed himself against the door with a horrified look on his face.

Flint panted for a second and sat on the bench. Although he hunched over to sleep earlier, bending wasn’t really recommended at this point. He leaned on the window and tried to sit up straight while Wood stared at him with wide eyes. 

“What’s wrong with you?” The Gryffindor demanded, his palms flat on the door as he blocked the only exit. 

“Not your business,” Marcus replied tersely. Wood looked fit to fight about it so he amended quickly, “You _made it_ not your business.”

Oliver looked sick. He bit his lip and hunched in on himself, his eyes skittered over the floor. He looked more his age than he’d ever looked before to Marcus, who remembered looking at his eleven year old counterpart and thinking they were just so alike as they boated across the Black Lake that first night. Now Oliver looked defeated and as world weary as Marcus felt all the time. The chaser didn’t want to give him an out, though, perhaps spitefully he wanted Oliver to stew in his mistakes like the shorter boy made him these last few weeks. 

The compartment went silent save for the sound of Marcus’s heavier breathing until Wood spoke up again, “D’you need me to get somebody?” 

Marcus shook his head and thunked it against the cool window pane. He heard Wood tap-tap-tap his fingertips on the wood of the door again and wondered if it would be too rude to tell him to just get the hell out if he couldn’t be quiet. Soft footsteps led the keeper back over to Marcus and Oliver gently laid his hand on the other’s shoulder. Biting his lip, Flint tried with all his might not to physically recoil from the shorter boy’s barely-there touch but he couldn’t help the minute flinch. 

He looked up and that Gryffindor stubbornness reared its head. Oliver’s face pinched in an expression of determination and he stomped back to the door, slamming the compartment exit shut. Marcus sighed and then berated himself for being depressed. Oliver made it clear before break he didn’t want to have anything to do with Marcus and he shouldn’t be surprised when the keeper chose to show that now… even if he had come to visit him, alone, on the way back from winter hols. 

A few minutes later and the door slid open again. Adrian Pucey ducked inside, took one look at him, and scowled. Oliver followed shortly after and shut the door with a furtive look up and down the train. 

“What’ve you done to yourself now, you daft bastard?” Adrian said quietly and approached his friend. He pushed Flint’s shoulder back into the cushion and ignored the low hiss of pain the older boy let loose. Wood stood with his back to the door, hands firmly holding the two handles in the middle to prevent anyone else from barging in.

“ _I_ didn’t do shite,” Flint said petulantly, although he did lean back and let Adrian touch him to his heart’s content. The blonde boy rubbed his hands over Marcus’s shoulder and took note of his every wince and bit back noise, then tugged on the bottom hem of his jumper.

“Take this off, then,” he said and Oliver pretended to look anywhere else, his cheeks a dark ruddy red. The problem with that strategy was that there was literally nowhere else _to_ look and he struggled to avert his eyes long enough for Marcus to ditch the thick sweater. Although the other stood an entire head over Oliver, his frame was not as burly and bulky as his robes led people to believe. He had broad shoulders that tapered into a thin waist, long muscled arms from hours of practice, and a flat stomach lightly covered in thin black hair towards his waistline. Oliver gulped and winced at Adrian’s amused glance in his direction, though Flint didn’t seem to notice. With a second look Oliver noticed the thick layers of purple, yellow, and green bruises ringing around the boy’s shoulder and falling down the same side of his back. The pale skin was marred by poorly healed thin cuts overtop the rough patterns.

“What the bloody _fuck_ happened to you?” Oliver yelped. Adrian threw him a positively poisonous look and Marcus just rolled his eyes with a grunt. Pucey smacked his leg even as he dragged the glowing tip of his wand over a few of the larger cuts.

“I’d like to know as well, you prick,” the healer said. He pushed so Marcus had to face the window to heal his back.

“Wasn’t quick enough,” Flint said shortly. Oliver scoffed over the sound of Adrian’s snort, “Just a bludgeoning hex. Broke a window with me shoulder,” he finished up with a curl to his lip Oliver could see from that angle. Pucey shook his head and muttered something Oliver could barely hear. 

“Your da did that to ya?” Wood said, aghast. Adrian winced and dutifully finished healing the cuts littering Flint’s back before dropping his bag on the floor and rifling through it. He upended the entire thing and a deluge of medical and school supplies fell out--too much for just a normal bag but were they wizards or not?

“We duel during the hols,” Flint said briskly and arched away from Adrian’s cold fingers when he rubbed a thick, gooey salve on the worst of the bruises, “Bonding time.” Flint snorted this time at his own joke.

“What’s your mum got to say about it all?” Oliver tossed out maliciously, furious that this could happen to Marcus, who he sort of maybe could perhaps be fond of. As a friend. “Thought she seemed like the proper sort who’d care if her kid were gettin’ the piss beat out of him.”

Flint stood suddenly and forcibly reminded Oliver exactly how tall he was. He loomed over the Gryffindor as Adrian abruptly tried to run damage control.

“Marc, he didn’t mean it like that--”

“Don’t you talk about my mother,” Flint snarled and Oliver blanched, knowing he’d cocked it up again with his mouth, “You don’t know _fuck all_ about my family, Wood.” He echoed from their rendezvous in the hospital wing almost a month prior. 

Oliver winced and then frowned at himself. Cowardly lion, indeed. He straightened up in the face of Flint’s wrath and pushed his shoulders back with his own answering scowl.

“How the fuck am I s’posed to know ‘bout your family if you never see fit to talk about ‘em?” He tossed out. Flint’s silvery eyes narrowed and Adrian blanched.

“You know maybe I should go--”

“You lost any right to ask about me or mine when you couldn’t even be arsed to look at me after _you_ came onto me!” Flint retaliated. He spared a moment to be grateful this end of the train was empty because there was no way the compartments on either side wouldn’t have heard that. 

“I really think I should leave and let you two--”

“Oh that’s nice. Just because I needed a bit to think about what it means to be datin’ you means I don’t want to be your friend or anything!” Oliver threw back. His ears flushed a dark pink and his fists balled up on his hips.

Adrian shoved his way in front of Marcus and poked Oliver in the chest, “Let me out of here because I am _not_ going to watch you two fuck once you get done yelling.”

The slam of the compartment door rang in both their ears for a few minutes as they stewed in tense silence. Finally Marcus huffed and reached down to the seat and snatched up his jumper, jerking it over his head and covering his chest and arms and everything again. Wood resisted the urge to stop him. Flint sat down and hunched in the seat, staring out the window as if to ignore Wood’s entire presence. 

Oliver decided he could bear to be the bigger man here, “Sorry,” he said quickly before he lost nerve, “For what I said, ‘bout your mum and all.” 

It would have to do. Marcus’s shoulders lost that tense look and he shrugged, “Whatever.” 

Oliver crunched up his nose and stomped forward to sit right next to Marcus on the bench. Their thighs smushed together tightly and he could feel the heat even through both their trousers. Marcus stiffened again and went to straighten up while Oliver laid a broad hand on his thigh to hold him still, just like in the hospital wing. Marcus held down the feelings of deja vu and ruthlessly pushed away the thought of his impending crushed self esteem.

“You gonna talk to me ever again, or did I balls it up completely?” He said quietly. He curled his other hand around Marcus’s bicep, twisting in his seat to face the taller boy. Flint sat quietly with his eyes focused out the window for stiff minutes while Oliver fought the urge to shake and start a fight just to hear something.

“What’re you playing at?” Marcus said, equally quiet. He didn’t look away from the window and Oliver felt his arm tighten under his fingers.

“What d’you mean?” He replied nervously.

“I mean,” Flint said, turning to face him finally, “Is this you sayin’ that we can date and go to Hogsmeade together even though your little lions will get offended about it, or,” He said with a traitorous waiver in his voice that Oliver knew he’d never forget, “are you sayin’ you’re sorry for the fight but you’ve decided that we can be friends again, but you definitely don’t want to be seen ‘oldin ‘ands with the big, brutish snake?” 

Flint’s silvery eyes stared him down and Oliver thought to himself that really, any house could be the house of the brave if the standard was him. He decided to rally around his Gryffindor courage and met Marcus’s slightly watery (did he make him cry?) gaze with a determined jut to his chin.

“I’m sorry for doin’ that to ya,” He began and Flint scoffed, slumping in his seat in defeat, “Because I know I’m the one who did it first and I’m the one who ignored you and I’m the one who pushed you and our friends out of the study group and I’m the one who hurt your feelings.”

Marcus stared at his shoes for a second and then muttered churlishly, “You did _not_ hurt my _feelings_.” He sounded disgusted. 

“Well,” Oliver said after a beat, “I’m sorry anyway. And besides, I wanted to uh, ask you if you still felt that way ‘bout me or if I fucked it up so bad you’ve washed your hands of it?”

Another beat, then a gruff, “Don’t know if you noticed, but I’m a right mess since you fucked off.”

Oliver grinned and pushed the hand on Marcus’s arm down to tangle their fingers together, “Sorry ‘bout that, I guess, but not sorry you’ll still have me.” 

He leaned up and Marcus tilted his head down, pressing their lips together like they should’ve outside the Gryffindor common room all those weeks ago. The lion’s lips felt chapped but smooth, unlike Flint’s soft but bitten ones. They fit together nicely and Oliver hummed against his lips, pulling himself up to hold onto Marcus’s face with both hands.

“Budge up,” Wood said roughly, pushing at Flint’s shoulders and then climbing into his lap. He fumbled his wand out of his pocket and flicked a simple locking charm at the compartment door and settled in with a knee on either side of Marcus’s strong thighs. From this vantage point he was taller than the Slytherin, finally, and he used his newfound height to tilt the chaser’s head back onto the cushion. Marcus let out a slight oof and his long fingers curled around Wood’s hips to hold him still while Oliver controlled the kiss. 

They spent a long, immensely gratifying ten minutes snogging in the back end of the train avoiding everyone else before the compartment door snicked open to allow Terrence Higgs to saunter in with both arms flung out.

“Hello, my sexually frustrated cap-- oh! Why Mr. Wood, I didn’t expect to see you here!” Pucey slammed into the door divider abruptly with a crash, panting.

“Fucking hell, Higgs! I said _not to do this!_ ” Marcus slammed his head into the cushion with a groan and Oliver laughed loudly, clapping a hand over his mouth as the unmistakable clomping noise of Warrington’s heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. The dark skinned boy poked his equally dark hair in the door and gave a smarmy smile at the sight of the two captains entangled on the bench.

“Oh good! Did I win?” He said loudly to Higgs who shook his head in mock sadness.

“Actually--”

“Oi, wot are you lot doing back here?” Alicia’s voice came out, “And why are we all gathered ‘round empty compartment-- oh my.” Angelina and Katie looked like Christmas had been extended.

The small group of sixth and seventh years openly leered and goggled at their friends in the compartment and Oliver, unable to contain himself anymore and absolutely giddy at the knowledge that his ‘news’ resolved itself by virtue of Marcus’s nosy friends, collapsed in a heap on the floor with laughter while Flint covered his eyes with both palms, his shoulders shaking up and down with silent mirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still want to play in this sandbox so i'm going to tentatively say i'll be back for more flintwood but my summer classes are really bumming me out.


End file.
